#a pink dress and panty hose

[wheelercore]

Is that meant to be holly being obscured by will here or am i experiencing some sort of wheeler induced optical illusion

[starkeyisthelastname]

a trailerpark!rafe blurb for @islandclubchampagneroom 🚬 this is a lil filthy.. you’ve been warned. 😶💦

You looked like a little gorgeous doll, skipping from trailer to trailer with your basket full of goodies you made. You came across your new favorite place, which was Rafe’s trailer. It was kinda run down, but that didn’t matter to you. To your surprise, he was outside already, washing his beat down pickup. You couldn’t help but ogle him a little as he was shirtless, his toned upper body on full display. He made your tummy feel funny every time you were around him, especially when you heard him speak. “It’s a lil’ hot for you to be outside, ain’t it’ baby doll?” He would rasp out.

He held a cigarette in the same hand as he did the hose, rinsing off the rusty truck as the other one brought a can cheap beer to his lips. His hooded blue eyes would stare you up and down, the nasty thoughts already running through his mind as he soaked up every inch of your stunning little self.

“I made cookies! Do you want some?” You asked, voice sweet as you ignored his question about it being too hot.

He eyed you, gulping down the rest of his beer before smashing the can and throwing it behind him. He brought the cigarette up to his mouth, motioning you to come closer. He wrapped an arm around your waist, peering down into your basket. “What kind you make, sweet cheeks?” He asked, squeezing your hip roughly.

You felt giddy every time he touched you, biting your glossy bottom lip as you felt the heat shoot down to your core. “Sugar with sprinkles and umm.. chocolate chip with pink frosting. It’s kinda getting melted though…” You pout, not realizing his hand had slipped lower to feel the lack of panties you had on underneath your cotton dress. He blew out the smoke away from your pretty face, before chuckling darkly. “Well how about you come inside and cool off for a lil’ bit and you can set those pretty cookies down..” He suggested, knowing you’d fall for his trap.

He’d be three more beers in, last cigarette in his hand as the other lifted up your dress. “Why you walkin’ around the trailer park with your cunt all out?” He finally asked, large hand coming down to give it a firm smack. He’d have your back, pinned to his broad chest, his sparse facial hair, tickling your neck. You wiggled against his denim covered lap, the funny feeling in your tummy growing the more he touched you.

“You think this sweet lil’ hole is ready for a grown man’s cock?” His voice in a low drawl as the cloud of cigarette smoke blew down your body.

You were an adult, but your father had kept you sheltered away from everything that was bad. You never had been touched by another man until you met Rafe, and you were desperate for more. You didn’t know what his words meant, but they sounded dirty and your poor little self couldn’t help but nod. He shuffled a bit behind you, putting out the cigarette bud into the overflowed ash tray and lifting you up a little from his lap.

With a pop of his jeans and tug of a zipper, his fat cock smacked against his lower abs as he positioned you back against him. He ran the tip along your dripping folds, loving your whimpers as he teased your greedy little hole. He felt you tense up, gasping as he began to slowly push up into your untouched flower. It took every ounce of him not to completely ram up into your fluttering pussy, your cunt squeezing the fuck out of his dick. “That’s a tight fuckin’ cunt.” He grunted to himself.

You were so full, already dumb on the older man’s cock as the pain subsided for a pleasure you had never experienced. You were at a loss for words, body lazily collapsing against his muscled chest as his dirty hands hooked under your thighs. He began to thrust up into you, his light mustache grazing the smooth skin of your shoulder as he started talking dirty to you. “This is why you don’t come around a bad man like me, sweet baby doll. You get your fuckin cunt ruined.”

You were already too attached to him. Your head spinning as he said the most filthiest things you had ever heard in your sheltered life. Even if he was the exact type of man your father told you to stay away from, you didn’t care. You just didn’t know any better but to be obsessed about the first man to ever give you attention and that happened to be one of your father’s tenants.

“I own you now, sugar. Got that?” Rafe groaned in your ear, the sounds of your pretty moans getting increasingly louder throughout his messy trailer, while he fucked you through your first orgasm. “That’s right.. cum all over daddy’s fat cock, make a mess all over that shit my little fuckdoll.” He told you, feeling you clench around with a scream.

Oh how he was gonna have some fun with you…

[justjessame]

Light Through the Darkness: Chapter 36

Mystic Falls, VA Late January 2010

Damon left and collected his car from the house. He went to find the only person he could think of for advice for what he needed, who also wouldn't ask unnecessary questions. Pearl's daughter, Anna. She was skulking around Elena's brother and the two of them were too adorable for words.

Luckily he caught her outside the school, about to embark on a new life of her own. Calling her over, he told her what he needed, noticing for the first time she was close to the same size as Abigail. Still slightly taller, she would do for a shopping partner.

While Anna looked curious, she shrugged it off and took him to the mall. Passing by the offerings of stores with names that caused him to cringe, as she was leading him from store to store, a dress finally caught his eye. It was shorter than she'd ever worn, and it showed more of her back and shoulders than he'd ever really seen her show, but it was THE dress.

"Who's this for?" She asked, as he asked her to choose it in a size closest to hers. "I'm not the same size as Katherine and Elena, so who's the mystery woman?"

As he moved to another store, contemplating heavily on the finer points of Victoria's Secret, and getting sidetracked by need for Abigail for a moment he pushed past. Shoes, he thought, I'll focus on shoes and send Anna for her lingerie.

"Never you mind," he answered finally, gesturing to the vivid pink and black storefront that would be his undoing. "Could you, please, pick out a few pairs of panties. Same size as the dress." He was walking away, but heard her rebuttal.

"Even you know that's not how they're sized, Damon." He chuckled until she left him speechless with the next question. "Do you have mystery woman's bra size, or do I skip those?"

His mouth went dry. The dress, carefully wrapped in the bag he held was strapless and had a defined bodice. Her breasts had always been under so many layers, but would be on perfect display. Close and tempting. He shook his head and answered, knowing she could hear him, "No, but pick up a jacket, that size you can guess."

She laughed behind his back. Whomever the mystery woman was and she had a fair idea, she had Damon Salvatore tied in knots.

The shoe store was overflowing with options. Would Abigail want the comfort of a canvas sneaker or the familiarity of low cut booties? He smiled wistfully at a pair of heels he'd kill to see her wear, but put those on hold for now. He wasn't worried about sizing her shoes, he'd held her feet in his hands enough to know the exact size and shape. Hazard of dancing at too many parties, and the dresses that made reaching down so difficult.

Unable to choose, Damon picked both and then tossed in a pair of dress flats for good measure. Better to allow her some choice, he thought, remembering her irritation with Emily's choices.

Doubling back to meet Anna, he found her holding three bags. Quirking an eyebrow, at her abundance of bags, she shook her head. Men.

"One bag," she said, holding up the smallest, "has the articles you requested. This one, she held up a slightly larger bag, has things that a woman would like to have access to on her vanity." She gave it a shake and he could hear liquid sloshing inside. "I grabbed some socks, hose, brush, comb, perfume." She showed the larger bag and he already knew it held the jackets. Nodding his understanding, they walked back to his car.

Anna really was curious if she was correct about the identity of the mystery woman. As he drove her back to the school, she contemplated his temperament.

"It's Abigail Morgan, isn't it?" She blurted, watching his profile and noticing the clench of his jaw. "I won't tell anyone, Damon, I just thought it might be her."

A curt nod was all the confirmation she received. Abigail Morgan had been an enigma to her when they'd arrived in Mystic Falls in the 1860s. Her bearing, looking so regal, but she was filled with warmth and acceptance. She recalled seeing her walk through town, shopping, yet stopping to speak to not only those of her own station, but to slaves and servants running errands. Anna watched in awe when this young woman spoke to field hands and the mayor in the same warm and open matter. She had been so different from the others.

"I hope she likes what we chose," Anna offered as he stopped to let her out.

"Thank you," he offered, and she knew it covered everything.

Nodding she joined her fellow classmates. She'd need to compel her skipping, but it was worth it. Seeing Damon Salvatore go breathless at the mere mention of bras would carry her though days of ill humor.

MORGAN HOUSE

"Are you quiet certain this constitutes as a dress in the present?" Abigail's voice, coming from behind a set of changing screens made him smile. "There seems to be quite a bit missing."

"It's all there, Abi." He assured her, fighting the urge to duck behind and see the finished vision for himself.

He heard a loud sigh, and then felt his mouth go dry again when she asked, "And the, did you call them panties? Are you sure I'm meant to wear just one at a time?"

The thought of her in whatever panties Anna had chosen was making him distracted. Groaning with the same longing, he begged her to come out, assuring her one pair was more than enough.

"Fine," she said with petulance. "But if I'm run out of town for being shameless, it's on your head."

She moved and was in full view. The breath knocked from his lungs. The dress was perfect. Strapless, her breasts were pushed up with the tightness of the bodice. Torturing him with the view it presented. A pinched waist, the knee length skirt flared. Her legs, always a mystery because even her nightgowns had been floor length, were surprisingly toned. Bare feet and hair swinging loose to her hips, Abigail Morgan was heartstopping. Thank God he was already dead.

"Well?" She asked, looking completely unsure. "It's disgraceful, isn't it?"

He shook his head to clear it and answer her. "The ONLY disgrace is having to wait this long to see you in it." His voice sounded choked, which he was. Choked with need. Every slice of skin left uncovered beckoned to be tasted. And he was aching to accept. "If you'd prefer, in the larger bag are some jackets. They'll offer more cover." Part of him wished against her taking the offer, another thought his sanity required it.

She nodded taking the larger bag off the chest sitting at the foot of her bed. She pulled out the two jackets. One was fitted leather, the other looser denim. Turning to him with furrowed brow, she held them up for his inspection. "It would appear that I am at the mercy of your superior knowledge of the styles of this time." She looked adorable in her confusion and he wanted to help.

"The leather," he replied, it was more fitted, but it would set the dress off perfectly. Anna had chosen a light grey color and when Abi set the denim down to pull on her preference, he stopped her. "Allow me?" Moving the heavy length of her hair to lay over her left shoulder, he removed the tag from the back of her dress first. "Let's make sure you look perfect, shall we?" He saw the goosebumps on her skin and heard her pulse speed up. Running the fingertips of his right hand slowly up her arm and across her shoulder, he felt her skin flush with warmth. "I love this dress on you, Abigail." His voice was husky with need. "I love it because it shows this," his fingertips traced up her neck, then down the part of her spine left uncovered. He heard her swallow. "Because if it shows it, then I can taste it." Leaning forward he let his lips follow the path from where her shoulder met her neck, flicking his tongue gently as he passed her pulse point and smiling at her gasp. "I love the taste of you, Abigail Morgan." His lips ran down the back of her neck and he felt more gooseflesh, more heat. Kissing lightly, he ran his tongue down the bumps of her spine and felt her knees shake, so he moved his left arm around to hold her up. "Should I stop, Abi?" He needed her to stop him, with words, because he wanted her so badly his body felt like fire.

Abigail swallowed again. Did she want him to stop? NEVER! But should they stop? Yes, unfortunately. She needed to fulfill a promise she made to her papa and while the image of Damon taking everything he promised to take was distracting and more than welcome-she needed to focus.

"We should probably pause this," she said, need heavy in her tone. "Not forever, but I do need to leave the house. I have an errand to run."

It worked, breaking the spell enough for him to remove the jacket's tags and help her into it. She turned and pulled his head down for a kiss that held the promise of more. Just not right now.

Choosing her shoes, the canvas sneakers that he stepped back to allow her to put on herself. He didn't trust himself to touch her bare legs. Stopping may prove impossible. He smiled as she stood before him in her new outfit asking his opinion.

"Perfect, of course." He said. "Your hair-"

Her eyes widened in fear of what he might suggest for her hair. She fought the urge to clutch it to her.

"Do you need help putting it up?" He asked, seeing her fear. "I wouldn't dare suggest any changes, Abi. I just wanted to know if you had ever put it up or styled it yourself before?"

Ah yes, that would be an issue. She'd always had Sallie to brush and arrange it for her. Seeing him pick up another bag, she watched him pull out a brush, comb, and some types of pins and clips. She took the brush from him and ran it through her curls, happy to find no tangles. He handed her something stretchy and circular. Quirking her eyebrow, he smiled and took the brush from her.

"I'm no lady's maid, but I think I can manage a ponytail." Damon said, using the brush to pull her hair into a smooth clutch high on the crown of her head. Making sure her hair was out of her face, he stretched the band and used it to wrap around the clutch. Even pulled high, her hair was still midway down her back.

"There," he said, and pulled her to the full length mirror in the corner. He stood behind her as she studied herself. "You look like a modern young woman, Abi."

Abigail had to admit, once she got over the scandalous length and the exposure of her new dress, with the jacket and the comfortable shoes, she did look nice. Her hair, did he call this style a ponytail? Was nice too. Feeling better about the complete picture, she returned his smile.

"Ready to venture outside?" He asked, almost wishing she'd say no, so he could keep her to himself longer.

She nodded and turned to him. Stepping closer, she wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face against his chest. His arms returned her embrace automatically. Kissing the top of her head, he waited her to be fully ready. She said she had an errand, and he had a goal as her guide to Mystic Falls 2010- help her in any way she needed.

She pulled back and smiled up at him. "Let's go."

And Damon, taking her hand in his, was determined to keep his goal's aim on track.

[chloeworships]

This is a very VERY specific message for a man.

A woman that was unfaithful to you is going to come back literally begging 🙏🏾

👀

I saw her on her hands and knees crawling to you chileeee. Lawd have mercy 👀 She was wearing a hot pink dress paired with black strappy heels and it was tighter than panty hose and lingerie 😂 She was on a beach and under a bridge leading to the sea. She’s really emotional over this 🥺 Perhaps she’s FINALLY seeing your value?

I can’t vouch for her sincerity but sometimes even good women make mistakes.

PRAY ABOUT THIS.

Let God reveal if this person has CHANGED because I unno 🤔💭

Some aspects of the last prophecy God gave me about taking someone back is also for YOU. God will tell you if this person deserves a second chance. Wait for your answer and have strong boundaries with this person. Love is freely given but trust is NOT.

UPDATE:

I just heard this song this morning 🎧

[boricuacherry-blog]

The Gay home evoked the aura of the Addams Family. The minute I walked through the door, I was uncomfortable.

Mother Gay was essentially a sweet lady but had little interest in me. I quickly saw that her main concern was the man who ruled over the household like a lord: Father.

Father Gay's presence - or absence - was always on Mother's mind. For long periods of time he remained in his upstairs bedroom, separate from Mother's. When he wanted something - a cup of coffee, a sandwich, a freshly ironed shirt - he rang a bell attached to a string. When he decided to make his grand appearance, it was always an event.

The first time I saw him I was shocked. In that instant, I knew why Marvin had been loathe to discuss him.

He came down the stairs with pink rollers in his hair. He wore a form-fitting shirt unbuttoned to expose his upper torso. It was not a pretty sight. The curlers were strange enough. But the white-toned panty hose under his plaid Bermuda shorts and the fact that he was wearing his wife's red flat sandals put him in a category all his own. I didn't know the name of that category. All I knew was that this man was beyond strange. Slight of build with undistinguished features, he was imperiously vain. He strutted like q peacock. He spoke like a trained actor. When he addressed me, he was courteous. But I was so freaked out by his appearance, I hardly heard his words.

Mother Gay called him Doc. He called her Babe and kept a notebook that critiqued her housekeeping. Surveying the house like a drill sergeant, he jotted down, "Dishes: dirty ... couch: dusty ... curtains: soiled." More disturbing than this, though, were the frequent female visitors who arrived at the house, and with Mother Gay's knowledge, paraded up to his bedroom. They were typically women from his church with big behinds.

"Father," Marvin's brother Frankie told me, "is a booty man."

When Father wasn't around, Frankie was also telling me the facts that Marvin had not been able to bring himself to describe - the gruesome details of the beatings that Marvin suffered as a boy.

"My sisters and I obeyed him," said Frankie. "That was the easiest way out. Why make him mad? But Marvin isn't made that way. You can't tell Marvin what to do. Mother spoiled Marvin early on, made him feel like he was a little prince. Well, the king might be the king, but the prince ain't listening to him. Making it even worse, the king is dressing up like a queen. He's wearing frilly blouses that look more suited for Mother than him. Sometimes we catch him wearing Mother's underwear. We hate that. We hate how he goes out in the streets with his hair in curlers. It's bad enough we can't go to any of the normal black churches where our friends go. We gotta go to his strange little church that tells us we can't dance or listen to rock 'n' roll. And we also gotta hear the taunts of our buddies calling him queer. We know that's not true. But we can't shout back and say, 'Hey, our dad likes women, 'cause we see 'em coming through the house.' We just gotta shut up and take it. That's rough, especially since we're always reminded that our last name is Gay. There were times, though, when we didn't take it. There were times when both me and Marvin had to fight to defend our father's honor. After one nasty fight where Marvin got his nose bloodied and Father asked him why, Marvin just came out and said it. He told him that he looked like a homosexual and that he was bringing shame to all of us."

"How old was Marvin when this happened?" I asked.

"Nine or ten."

"What did your father do?"

"He beat the holy hell out of him. Only this time it was different. This time he locked him in our room and made him wait there for an hour. While Marvin waited, Father kept snapping his belt against the door so Marvin could think about what was about to happen. It was like torture.

'"You got one chance to get outta this,' Father said. 'You gonna come out here and apologize to me and everyone else in this family, or I'm coming in after you.'

"Marvin shouted back, 'You're the one who should be apologizing! You're the one going round looking like a queer.'

"That did it. Father went in after him. But this beating was different. Not only did he give him a whipping, but he tore off all his clothes beforehand. It was a struggle. Marvin fought back, but he was only a kid. He couldn't fight off a grown man. Father overpowered him, he beat Marvin butt naked, not just with the leather belt but with the buckle as well. He tore into his skin and left these big welts. Then Father made him stay home from school for weeks 'cause he was scared the teachers at school might see the marks on Marvin's back and call social services. After that, you'd think Marvin would learn - as I did- not to answer back. But he never learned that. No matter how bad the beatings, Marvin never backed down."

"But it wasn't just Father. It was an uncle of ours who actually molested Marvin. When Marvin told Father about it, Father didn't believe him. But I knew Marvin was telling the truth. I saw it happen. I wanted to stick up for Marvin, but I was afraid of Father. We all were."

I was happy to escape the oppressive atmosphere there. On a few occasions Marvin took a break from touring to visit his family and me. I noticed how he and Father assiduously avoided each other. Father rarely left his room. When he did come downstairs, Marvin got up and left. Few words were exchanged. The atmosphere was ice cold. Not even the smallest hint of affection. I was happy to escape the oppressive atmosphere there. Compared to the Gays, my mom seemed perfectly sane.

-Janis Hunter

[punk-in-docs]

‼️YOU (don’t) KNOW I’M NO GOOD‼️

Detective (Killer) Quinn x Reader

3.6k words - Sequel to Tainted Love -

Inspired by *that* photo shoot - this is for @ceriseheaven 💋

Summary: Danger is apparently closer than you realise. ‼️ TW dark themes within: graphic descriptions of death/murder, and some mild stalking ‼️ porn coming up hot in the next one folks (I forever wish I could be one of those writers who just hops right on into writing smut - you’ll have to hear me waffle a little bit first Kay?)

A Hooker is found dead off Sunset Boulevard. Throat slit.

Her lanky limbs, stuffed into a horrible stinking dumpster behind the Whisky a Go-Go.

A blue dime store high heel lays in the alley. There’s blood spattered on it

You were there like a flash. Still tripping into your heels and zipping up your skirt, pulling on panty hose. Doing up your pussy bow blouse as you waited at the bus stop. No food or coffee in your belly. You’d no time.

Just sheer gut adrenaline and deep throbbing hunger for this continuing nightmare. Your story is here and you’ll hunt it out.

The bucking up bootstrap talk you give to yourself every morning. Shaking off shallow sleep. Finding that well of your elbow grease and getting the bit tight between your teeth. Grabbing your lipstick and your voice recorder as you run out the door.

Forever hauling ass to and from the corner of Clinton and Larchmont at the Chronicle office. Whenever you’re needed; have pen and gumption, will travel.

Sleeping at your desk with a deadly knotted crick in your neck. Back and fucking forth, from your baby pink and slowly rotting Las Palmas apartment building.

You exist from ends to end of cigarettes and chucking back shots of bourbon at night after a steamy shower. You scrounged your way by on half snatched lunches on the go, mustard hotdogs or everything bagels, black coffee, two sugars, no creamer. Gin with ice and lemon on Friday nights, and little to no sleep at all.

News never sleeps. Why should you-

You’d scrape to the bottom of this hellscape crime if it killed you.

Oh Birdie, Birdie, Birdie.

Another girl mangled dead. Another bloodstain soaking into the very same stretch of tarmac that’s laid with the gold star walk of fame.

A house way up in the Hollywood hills with two male roommates. And now a Hooker dead a stones throw off the boulevard. It’s random. There’s no pattern there. No food-chain event to yet glimpse a rhythm in.

You’d managed to elbow your way past the male reporters. Balding fat Murray’s and Brad’s, who came flocking from the Times and the Glendale Press.

With their cheap brown suits and oily moustaches. Ketchup blobbed on their polyester shirts and sweat pit stains, and usual brand of misogynistic bullshit. The way they talk about the dead hooker is like she was vermin.

You struck gold. You found the girls. You shamelessly shove your nose, and your cheap Jet Rag heels, all up into the business of the deceased’s friends.

Gathered around the cordon with you, tear streaked. Wiping weepy mascara trails. Last nights make up still caked on and very high heels. Hickies around their necks and up fingertip marks cobwebbed up their thighs.

You don’t take shit from them. No male reporter thinks their input is valuable? You do. You carve out time for them in this callous fast paced city that sees them as unwanted features.

You learn her name. Skinny Tina. So called because of her love of smack. Junkie to it. Liked leopard print dresses and her blue denim jacket. Smoked lucky’s. Came from Nashville. Old fixture on this block. Older than the stars she trod over.

You learn how she kept her corner. Worked her patch solid, from Bob Hope, all the way up to Ella Fitzgerald. That was her turf.

They tell you about the John she got off with last night when they last saw her. You cling to that morsel like it’s your lifeline. Root out as much as you can.

Scribble furiously. White male. Mid forties. Red Thatcherite braces, whiff of Wall Street about him. Prick from a lawyers office or some shit like that.

You nod. You ask. You write. Pulling meat off the bones of this case

You’ve no idea you’re being watched.

From behind the shiny windscreen of a Porsche no less. He sips his shitty weak coffee. Slips his eyes all over you as you stand there with the hookers. Unswerving determination behind those glasses lenses of yours.

You give each of them your card. You tell them to get in touch if another girl goes missing. Or if anything happens. Catch anyone skulking around. Ring you. Day or night.

Like you care toots. You just want your name in the paper right? They stand there with one hip cocked. Eyeing you with spiky pessimism.

You’re punchy. You meet eyes and you don’t shrivel away. “I care.”

You scribble your personal number on the back in red biro and hand it over. Shove it at them with hard core stoicism. You take the time to stand here and give a shit about these women.

You stand behind the yellow tape and write endlessly on your pad, the girls drift away from you. Heels clicking sharp on tarmac. Back into the filthy streets. Back to brutality and drugs and trying to make a living.

The cops buzz around the scene like the very same flies that drift off the trash. Shooing people off from the alleyway. Overflowing garbage trampled all over the sticky greasy puddles in the concrete.

Poor girl. No place to die.

You feel your heart sink low, dragging deeper down like sediment as you consider how it must have been to have it all end like that, in a place like this.

This shining golden city of angels and hope and promise, and this is the worst part of its seedy underbelly. Rock clubs of legendary name and girls selling themselves outside of it. Dying out in the back alley, being left to rot like trash.

Worst of all, is that no one gives a shit. Another hooker dead.

That’s LA’s normal beat baby.

Out the corner of your eye you catch that car again. Flash of it. Hot rod red. Waxed shiny. You know he’d be here somewhere.

He strides into the crime scene past you. Time of no concern. Dunkin’ coffee cup in hand. Licking sugar glaze off his lips. Box of six glazed his other hand. Like this is some sort of brunch date, and not the scene of a homicide.

The big boots are still a fixture. Bell bottom black trousers like he’s on the set of Starsky & Hutch. Sitting on that trim slutty waist. Sways with his hips as he walks. A satin black button up with a too big collar, undone to his sternum. Wearing a gold medallion chain with a saint, but he sure as hell ain’t one.

His neck swims in sainted things but his hands have committed all manner of sins.

Peers at you across those ray bans. Brown eyes swimming up your legs. Licks his lips. Sweet sugar.

That prim little blouse he swears he can see your bra poking through. Dainty lace cups holding your tits. Skirt grazing good big sexy handfuls of your hips.

Fuck you look heavenly.

“Well well. If it ain’t my little Birdie.” He calls across to you as the tape is lifted for him by a stony faced cop. Macabre grin.

You look up from your pad. Meet those swallowing chocolate eyes. He’s leering over his shades at you.

“Quinn.” You swallow.

Try to ignore the way the blaze of morning sun slips like liquid amber down his skin. Slipping between his pecs and collarbones like he’s bathed in mandarin orange oil. Glimmering off that necklace. Ocean cold blue neon from buzzing sign shot through those dark curls from behind. Bleeding out the alley.

You don’t know what it is about him that you like. He looks so wildly slutty that it’s making your mouth water. He’s definitely anything but boring, and your mind absolutely runs to a filthy place with that insinuation

He’s got you trying to recall the last instance you carved out time for some sex in your life. It had been months. The clench in your gut made you aware.

“Are we making a habit of this?” He checks. Narrows eyes at you all playfully.

You, me, the yellow crime scene tape. Mangled bodies. Sirens shrieking. Yeah. Romantic as hell-

“Let’s hope not. Detective. Hardly the stuff of foreplay.” You counter. “Can I get a quote for tomorrows edition.”

“Wouldn’t that be neat of me.” He teases.

You bite back annoyance. He sees it in the scrunched set of your jaw.

He brings up another doughnut to his lips and takes a huge untamed bite. Smirking at you.

He swaggers away and up to the dumpster. Prances around the evidence. Not that the killer left much- blood spattered shoe. The cut throat. Same old same old. Blah blah blah.

You sigh as you make ready to leave. Blood out of a stone. You won’t get anything else here.

Only a small scrap of what you’d hoped for clutched in your pocket. That will get you shunted back to your usual place on page six.

You turn away and begin to head up the Boulevard. Maybe you’d find a place for some breakfast. Your feet are aching. Head sour for lack of caffeine.

“Miss.” Comes a bark from a gruff cop. Who steps under the tape and towards you.

“Chronicle. I was just leaving.” You flash him your staff badge and back away thinking you’re gonna get chewed out for being nosy. You’re a girl reporter, the axe blows tend to fall heavier on you from grumpy cops. Sexist fuckers.

“Quinn asked me to give you this.”

He hands you an empty cigarette packet. Lucky Strikes. The paper is worn thin. Perfumed like it’s been in a purse. Not a pocket.

Skinny Tina smoked Lucky’s.

You look at the cop. He just rolls one shoulder up in a shrug. Not his job to care. Plods away.

You open the well thumbed crimson cigarette packet and inside is a line of scrawled text. Slanted spidery scrawl. Pin nib stabbing into the paper.

This is the work of a serial killer.

Your world grows cold. Sudden and terrible like someone’s sucked out all the dry choke of that LA heat. You thumb the packet in your hands. When you peer up and spin back to the cordon-

Quinn locks his eyes on you. And smiles. Those eyes glow at you.

There’s your story, Birdie.

~

Rain is LA is vanishingly rare. But when it comes, it comes fucking furiously.

It’s spitting down your windows so hard it’s like it will do anything in its power to shatter the glass.

Palm fronds from the stumpy trees outside your windows skate and scrape the glass and cast long fingers of spindly shadows. A faded essence of tropical paradise about this shabby place. The pink walls, palm trees. The empty pit of a mouldy swimming pool out back, filled with graffiti, crumbling tiles and trash.

The air walking home was so thick and smooth you could sip it. Full up of rain clouds and chasing away the humidity.

You turn home and show your back to this water-logged night. Your shoulders and hair damp from running from the station.

You draw your thin drapes but the red light soaking into the room through the shitty pink things. The light stains them up like they’ve been left bloodied.

Your bedside lamp glows in the corner. Peachy pink from the rosy shade. Your room is entirely bathed in lapping tongue red and rose pink.

You cranked your pathetic shower up high and stood under the warm spray until it drained to cold. Your scrubbed your hair from dripping to damp, and slipped on an old white t shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Black lace panties.

Hair still wet as you padded through to your bedroom. Empty glass of bourbon on the nightstand. Half full bottle. You’ll be dipping well into it tonight.

Today was long. Endlessly so. Dragging you down like you’ve got concrete blocks tied on your heels. Cutting into skin as it drags you down.

There’d been another one. Found tonight way out past skid row, under the 6th street bridge.

Stabbed in the back and left to bleed. A kid. A stupid punk teenager, with his apple green spiky hair, belt chains and ripped spray painted anarchist shirt. Bruises on his knuckles showed he put up a fight.

A bag of weed and ketamine in his pocket. Track marks up his arms. All tangled and fired up in fiery self-rebellion. And it led him to dying under a bridge like some junkie.

There was such a clamour at the crime scene cordon that you got physically shoved aside, and ended up skinning your knees in the process. Tearing your pantie hose. Walking home with blood peeling down your calves. Stuck with muck and grit.

You felt miserable. You were miserable. Another day designed to sink you. All teeth and stomping jaws clamping on your pride and happiness.

You hounded as much as you could squeeze out the cops on scene with bleeding knees burning. Hands scraped from your fall. Not much at all.

Your mood was as far in the gutter as it could get. The shower helped. You swiped stinging betadine across your broken skin and chucked back Bourbon to ignore the grating pain.

You drunkenly shuffle to your small strip of a kitchen. Aqua blue and white tiled lino. Cheap but clean. Your whole place was really. Pink drapes and thick blue carpets bleached and matted with age.

Bathed briefly in the blue light and puff of cold from the fridge. You reach and chuck more ice in your used glass and fill it up with even more brown liquor. Mind swirling away and you let it. Close your clunking fridge door with a sloppy hand.

The booze helped. You were ignoring the irony that after a hard day you were crawling into the bottom of an Old Taylor bottle.

You were supposed to be a man about all this. Man up. Well. You’re a woman and you have to do this job twice as hard and relentless and with double the scrutiny from men. And in heels. So you decided long ago;

Fuck that.

You laid on your bed and thought about having dinner. A sad tin of soup or some box of ramen you’d forgotten about in your cupboard.

But instead you just lay there on your sheets and let the bourbon take you away.

And then your phone rings. Shrills to attention on your bedside.

You twist your head back to look at it. Past your cheap peach satin sheets. Your crappy cracked pink telephone won’t shut the hell up.

You launch over the bed and sit up to answer it. If it’s another call out to a murder site, you swear you’ll quit. “Yes?”

There’s a second or two of huffing crackling static the other end. And then,

“Nasty night isn’t it?”

That voice makes your whirling head sit up and pay attention. Oh that voice. He hears the way skin grazes on your covers. The pull of your lungs seeking breath. That makes him outwardly think of your tits too and he can’t help his mind wandering off into filthy plains.

“Quinn?” You check. Your mind is curling and blurry. But by now you’d know his tone when you hear it.

He bites his lip cause it gets him hard. Rubs his fingertips into the square box of the telephone he’s curled against. Sweat on his fingers chafes against the black plastic.

“Hey Birdie.”

“How did you get this number?” Your drunk mouth blurts out. Your tongue feels all fat and clumsy with drink. Loose- even.

He chuckles. It’s breathy and it’s beautiful. Slips like melted chocolate into your ear through the receiver. It may be a smooth sound but it does something sharp and twisting to your gut. A tug.

“I have my ways.” You can hear his stupid big grin.

“Cop ways I’m guessing?” You counter. He detects a tone levelled at him. Flash a badge and he can own this town. Walk in anywhere.

You reach over and bring the phone onto the bed. The cord of it trailing behind as you wrap the coiled wire around your finger. You sit up and cradle the phone between your ear and shoulder.

Eyes flicking over for a second to that well thumbed Lucky Strike’s packet. The one he wrote in and gave to you.

“I don’t need to go flashing my badge as much as you’d think. I can be very persuasive.” He charms. Like he could pluck down all the hanging stars and set them at your feet.

You don’t doubt that. Silver tongues and doe brown eyes seldom mix.

“You weren’t at the scene today. Worried me a little.” He adds.

“I worried you? You hardly know me.” You state.

“I personally-“ There’s a clink as he presses his hand flat to his collarbone. Clink of a chain. “Think we should change that.”

You sigh in confusion because you just can’t think of what else to do. Is he asking you out? Is he hitting on you? Is that what’s happening here?

“I was at the 6th street bridge today. Up until I got knocked down by the clamouring TV and camera crews and skinned my knees. And then it started to rain, I was getting nowhere so I called it a day.” You offered up.

The blazes up something in him. Sparks churning friction against the liquid gunpowder of his temper. All it takes is a spark. He has to take a deep breath at the thought of you bleeding.

“You alright?”

No not really.

I saw a kid brutally mangled and stabbed today. Skin ripped where someone tore him open with a knife.

I’m fucking lonely in this city and I have no friends for miles.

My job is the fucking pits of Tartarus some days.

“Ask me after my hangover tomorrow. When I don’t feel like a failure. And I didn’t see a dead kid torn to strips. And I’m- sober.” You curse under your breath.

Bulldog tone of yours all snappy and treading the borders of your patience. Bone weary.

“That sounds like a lot on your plate.” He offers. He sounds tender. The tenderest thing you’ve heard in a while.

“It sure as shit is. But I’m not sure I should be venting to a cop about it.” You admit gruffly. Standing up and holding the phone to your ear. Idly gazing at the rain outside. Coming down in sheets, hammering cold at your window ledges.

You pour yourself out more bourbon. Cause fuck it.

Oh, you play spiky and icy and he likes it. He’ll play you into his hands. You’ll be worth the wait.

“What if I’m one of the good ones.” He grins. Licks his lips. Outright lies.

“Don’t play games with me, Quinn.” You warn.

Funny; that was his line. Usually with a knife in his hand edged against a fragile throat.

“What if I can help you out with some private information on these cases.” He leans right in and purrs into the phone. It makes you feel squirmy. Like you’re under his gaze again. That flirty one that gets peered over his ray bans.

“And why on earth would you be doing that for me?” You keep your head screwed on straight. What little sense there is left that Bourbon didn’t steal.

“Mutually beneficial arrangement.” He drawls.

“Listen Detective, if you think you’re gonna get your dick wet just cause you toss me some scraps, you’ve got another thing coming, and it’ll be my heel stabbed in your eye.” You promise with punch.

He chuckles. He can’t deny the threat of that and the thought of fucking you had him harder than he’d care to admit. The glimpse of you he had in his head on your back and taking it. Indecent. Glorious.

“I’m no idiot, Birdie.”

His dark eyes graze through the glazed rain walls of the phone booth. Glass striped with wriggling rain and haloed car lights burst through in reds and searing white. The Porsche sits waiting behind him. Dotted in silver.

He can see you through your window.

He’s across the parking lot in the phone booth. One arm braced against the metal wall. Eyes pinned on the slice of that tongue pink room and the vague shape of you he can see through the thin drapes.

White shirt. No bra. Lace panties. Sat on your bed in that entirely pink-red washed room. Light kissing and wrapping your skin. And you’ve no clue he can see you.

You’ve no idea how bad he truly is for you. It’s delicious that.

“Why did you give me that cigarette packet, Quinn?”

He’s quick to answer. He’s thought about this answer. “Leverage.”

“Leverage?” You repeat like you can’t comprehend the word.

“Over those assholes at your paper who think that you don’t deserve your spot alongside them. Scraping together your sanity for every shot at the front page.” He says.

He cut to the quick. Like he’s torn your skin away to see in. Your dimly lit life with your bottles of booze and your struggles. Somehow he pieced you together so well it was like he had your blueprints.

“You don’t know me.” You gasp out. It’s incredulous. He’s making your head spin.

“I know a lot more than you’d think. It’s my job, after all. I like to think I’m good at it.”

“That sounds like a lot of ego talking.”

“In that case you should let me take you out for lunch tomorrow and see for yourself. Buy you something to soothe that little Bourbon hangover.”

Your spine flashes clammy.

“How the hell do you know what I’m drinking?”

Your head is thumping. Dread curling horrid up in your stomach like dead burnt leaves come fall. Crunching and crushing.

“Like I told you. Birdie. I’m just that good.” He chuckles.

Oh but he isn’t.

There’s a click and he promptly hangs up.

You’re left there watching the rain skate furiously down your windows. Listening to the dead tone on the other end blare. Thunder grazes the valley.

It feels more sinister than it should.

~

My Taglist for my JQ babes: (if I’ve missed anyone out I’m so sorry !) if anyone would like to be added drop me a comment on here babes !

@indouloureux @stiegasaw @munsonquinns @fujiihime @youaremyfamiliar @captain-tch @ghosttownwherenoonegoes @svenyves @sammararaven @ceriseheaven @feralgoblinbabe @groupie-love-71 @andromeda-andromeda @starbxcks @morganamoonstone @ramona-thorns @gvtosbith @poppy-metal @munsonswhore86 @munsonlov3r @lunatictardis @shenevertricks1831 @hazzaismyreligion @harrys-tittie @anaisweird @cerinthussulpicia @cinnamoncunt

[birdlungg]

I loved your collector x reader !! I was wondering if I could request Michael Myers (pee paw Myers cuz I love my lil old man) × house wife reader? And she's like femme and obsessed with pastels and pink? She makes money from home but she's always ready to wash his clothes and have a bath prepared even tho he sits like a wet cat 🥺🤍🤍

SITS LIKE A WET CT THATS THE PERFECT COMPARISON

I love thissssss

Hope you enjoy! Let me know what you think

——————————————————————————————————

Michael was a watcher. There was no doubt about it. He would watch and observe to find the perfect time to strike. Apart from the obvious predatory implications, he genuinely enjoyed people watching (not that he would ever admit it to anyone). He enjoyed watching you in the moments when you didn’t realize he was there. 

It’s evening, just before dark when he returns home. He’s watching you now, hidden behind the corner of your house as you tend to your garden. You’re humming to yourself as you water your daffodils with a garden hose. You wear your favorite bubblegum pink sundress that shows ample cleavage and stops at your thighs since it’s so warm, and Michael is very much appreciating the view. 

You turn around to walk back to the water spigot and jump about three feet in the air when you see him there. 

“Michael! Jesus, baby, you need to stop doing that!” You laugh to yourself as you walk to the faucet and turn off the water. By the time you walk to the side of the house to greet him, he’s already gone. You make your way into the house through the open glass door and see that he’s left a small trail of blood drops through the house. You sigh to yourself, removing your large sun hat and setting it on the hook next to the door. You follow the trail of blood up the stairs and into the master bathroom. Thankfully, the entire house has fake-wood flooring so cleanup should be fairly easy. 

Michael is standing in the bathroom waiting for you. After being together for so long he knows that you like to clean him up when he gets home after a night out. His coveralls got the worst of it, but his mask also has some splatters across the bridge of the nose. 

You step around him as he watches you, head tilting slightly as you work, turning on the faucet and setting the stopper to the bath. Then you turn to him and stand on your tiptoes to remove his mask. He’s so handsome, your Michael. Even weathered with age and missing an eye he’s the most attractive man you’ve ever seen. 

You toss the mask into the sink and get to undressing him. You unzip his coveralls and pull them down his shoulders. He had already removed his boots, so as soon as he stepped out of his coveralls he was ready to go. You never understood how he was able to go commando underneath his clothes, especially if he was eventually going to be covered in blood. To each their own, I guess. 

Michael steps into the bath as you grab all of his clothing and set them in the hamper. Finally, you lean over him and turn off the water, grabbing a loofah and body wash on your way back down. 

You kneel next to the tub and begin washing him, scrubbing down the areas you can reach. He’s never been the most cooperative for you, but you’ve learned to work around him. He bristles a bit when you get to his hair, but you just roll your eyes and continue.

“I’m gonna let you soak for a bit while I get your clothes washed, ok?” He says nothing, just watches you leave the room with the laundry hamper as you head downstairs. You start the laundry and mop up the blood with a rag, making your way back.

By the time you make it back upstairs he’s out of the bath, sitting there naked on the large bed. You head into the bathroom, making sure any blood or spilled water is taken care of and unplug the stopper in the tub. You head directly to the closet now, set on changing your own clothes. You drop your dress and stand there in your panties while you look at your options for pajamas as Michael stares. 

He does like to watch after all. 

[clonecaptains]

Spanish Lessons

Javi Peña x reader 

rated: m 

word count: 2k

Tonight is girl’s night with your friends. It happens less frequently than all of you would like, so you jumped at the opportunity to hang out with your girls. The only downside is that Javi has an off night tonight. Which means he’s home alone at your shared apartment and you could be spending time with him. Or jumping his bones.

He told you he didn’t mind, he was glad for a quiet evening. And he promised he would wait up for you. You both knew you’d be home late, and knowing you’d have a sleepy or maybe sexually frustrated Javi waiting for you at home has you a tiny bit distracted.

“Whoo hoo!!” your friend waves a hand playfully in front of your face, you’d zoned out. “Are we boring you?” she teases.

“No,” you flush and take a sip of your drink.

“This is girl’s night!” another friend chimes in, “don’t tell me you’re thinking about Javi?” she winks and nudges you with her elbow.

“I miss him alright,” you shrug. “He’s got the night off.” You don’t say anymore, and you don’t have to. You shrug again getting a chorus of laughter from your friends.

The teasing continues, but everyone understands. His job is hard, and it’s been a struggle for you at times. They support you through it, but there’s still some teasing to be had.

“So he must be good if you miss him already,” another friend interjects. “What’s he like?”

You just flush and shake your head. You’re not gonna kiss and tell. They’ve been trying to get details out of you for ages. They don’t need to know that he made you come three times last night from his mouth alone.

The conversation turns elsewhere, but still in the back of your mind you’re thinking about him.

-

Javi is at home doing the same. He rarely gets a night to himself. Of course he wants you with him, but this quiet is nice.

As soon as he gave you a kiss goodbye and the door was closed behind you, he took a deep breath. Your perfume is heavy in the air, and he loves the smell.

He busies himself in the kitchen. He’s not a bad cook, but tonight he’s reheating leftovers.

While the leftover dish is warming up, he flicks on the TV. He certainly does not turn on the news, he’s had enough of that. He turns on some mindless comedy he can half listen to in the background.

He goes into your bedroom, and grabs the hamper of laundry. He dumps it all into the wash, along with the shirt and jeans he’s wearing. Left only in some boxers, he heads to the kitchen to get his meal.

Javi smiles at a joke on the tv while he digs into his food. He thinks it was a joke you would have laughed at.

He teaches you Spanish that way. Using the TV. He repeats things back to you the words spoken on shows. He also talks to you in Spanish, so you can hear things in context. He’s turned it into a game now. for things you get right, he rewards you etc.

Last night you did well, hence him eating you out for quite some time.

He’d whispered Spanish praises and pet names between your legs, and something about it made you legs quiver a little longer. The thought sends a jolt to his crotch at the memory. He palms himself lazily on the couch. If he’s not careful he’ll get too hard.

Does he want instant relief? Or to wait for a few hours of torture until you get home?

It’s only 7:15. And you probably won’t be home until at least 10:30.

What the hell.

His food is forgotten and he leans back agasint the couch. Fuck, he wishes you were here. But the thought of you is only making him harder. It’s starting to burn and he needs a release. He won’t make it all night without it.

He smirks to himself, he hasn’t felt like this since he was a hungry hormonal teenager, or those rare lonely nights in college.

Javi pulls himself out of his shorts, and lazily strokes himself. He thinks about you from last night. The way you cried out from too much stimulation. The way your legs shook and clamped around his head. How good you taste on his tongue. How red your face was, the sweat on your brow and between your breasts. He’d kill too touch you right now, the softness of your skin.

He wishes this was your hand on him instead of his own. He strokes and pulls, feeling the skin glide from his arousal.

The picture he’s painted from the memory has him cumming on his hand and stomach in no time. The thought of your whines and the way you tugged on his hair has him throwing his head back in a groan. He grunts and sighs loudly until he’s spent.

He cleans himself up, finishes his now cooling meal, and smokes while he watches TV. He can’t remember a night when he had this little to do.

-

The play that you and your friends had gone to see ran long. It was a little after 11 when your keys jingle in the door. You don’t know if Javi will be awake, so you tread quietly.

Entering the apartment, you see all the lights are still on. A dirty plate is in the sink with a fork telling you that he ate. The dryer is rumbling, and you hear the shower in the bathroom. A small smile appears on your face. He’s still awake.

You walk by the bathroom to let him know you’re home, but you stop when you hear another noise. It’s low and quiet, but it sounds like he’s humming. It’s a song you don’t know, but you pause to listen anyways.

You jump slightly when the water stops and the curtain rings catch as the curtain is pushed back. You feel a lump in your throat and a spark in your belly. He’s wet and naked behind this door.

“Javi, I’m home!” you call to him walking back to the bedroom.

“I’ll be out in a second baby!” he calls back.

You kick off your heels and get undressed as fast as possible. You want in comfy clothes now. Your dress and bra are off when Javi comes in the room.

“How was the play?” he asks grabbing you around the waist and kissing your neck.

“Too long,” you laugh, “but it was good! I wanted to be here with you,” you admit leaning back against his shoulder.

“I wanted you here too,” he whispers sliding his hands up your waist to cup your breasts.

“Javi,” you writhe a little.

“Shh,” he shushes nipping at your ear. He spins you around in his arms for a gentle embrace. Your chests are pressed together, and you can feel him through the towel pressed on your thigh.

“Mi amor,” he sighs kissing your face.

“So what did you do tonight?” you ask while he kisses your face. You kiss him back and listen.

“Well,” he pulls back to look at you. “I missed you,” and you swear you see the tips of his ears get pink. He doesn’t say that he touched himself and thought of you, but with that look you can guess. “Ate dinner, watched tv. That was about it.”

You smile and kiss his cheek. “The girls were asking about you tonight.”

“Oh yeah what’d they say?” he puffs out his chest and raises an eyebrow.

You pull back and laugh, taking off your hose.

“They wanted sex stories, as usual.”

“What did you tell them?” Javi’s hands find your hips and he pulls you back to him. His hands pushing down your panties. “Did you tell them about your little Spanish lesson last night?” he purrs into your ear and sweeps a thumb over your sex.

“No,” your knees buckle. “I’d rather keep that memory to myself,” you smirk and grasp him through his towel. He bucks his hips into your touch and you squeeze.

“Hey Javi?”

“Hmm?” he hums, his lips pressing kisses to your neck.

“What song was that you were humming?”

His lips stop, his thumb stops.

“I’m sorry but all questions must be asked in Spanish now for the rest of the night.”

“What was it?” you laugh.

He matches your grin, and you’re hit with a wave of arousal again. His hair is wet on his forehead in strands. His skin is tan and covered in little drops of water. The white towel a contrast to his skin. And the bulge in said towel has only grown.

“I’m glad you had a nice night,” you tell him and smooth his wet hair back, even though most of it flops back forward.

He gives a quick peck on your lips, then walks back towards the bathroom. You hear him turn on the sink, then him brushing his teeth. While he’s doing that, you rummage through Javi’s t-shirt drawer and pull one on.

Javi comes back, this time the towel is gone and he’s stark naked. He’s still got the toothbrush in the corner of his mouth.

“What are you doing?” you laugh but it comes out more of a needy sigh.

He looks at you and shrugs, both eyebrows raised.

“Oh,” you clear your throat, “¿Qué estás haciendo?”

“Good,” he nods, heading back to the bathroom.

“What I’m not going to get an answer?”

“Not in English!” he calls back. You hear him tap on the sink with his brush.

Tiptoeing in the bathroom behind him, you feel like turning the tables on him.

You have a great view of him from the bathroom door. His bare ass and back take up most of your attention. But then you catch is gaze looking back at you in the mirror. His toothbrush is down, and both hands are resting on the counter.

Not so sneakily, now that he sees you, you come up behind him and hold his body to you. He doesn’t move, only tenses when you touch him where he needs you most.

“You know, I was going to turn the tables on you but-”

“But what?” he lets out a breathy laugh.

“I didn’t think I’d get this far, and I don’t have anything to threaten.”

He chokes out another laugh as your hand tightens.

“Fuck,” he swears, his head lowering and shoulders tensing. You take this opportunity to kiss his shoulder blades. The faded remainder of your lipstick smears across his skin.

“What was the song?” you ask.

“Baby,” he chokes out again, “you’re really bad at this game tonight.”

You’re making him feel so good, he doesn’t want you to stop, but he wants to mess with you some more. In a quick move, he’s got you up on the counter top. He’s pushed your panties to the side, and is teasing your sex with his thumb.

“You’ve been thinking about me all night haven’t you?” he mumbles into your neck. He’s moving too slow, you try and buck your hips but he stops when you do. “Baby, this is what happens, this is your punishment.”

You whine and blush. It’s all part of the game, but he’s so serious about it even when he plays, that there’s an edge to it. It fuels you on.

“Javi, please,”

He raises his eyebrows, “what?”

“Por favor,” you manage to gasp out.

He winds you up a little bit more with his fingers, then enters your heat.

“’Por favor’ is pretty basic sweetheart,” he grunts as he starts to thrust into you. “But fuck, I’ve been thinking about you all night, so I’ll let it slide.”

You’re a mess. His kisses are hot and fierce, one hand is keeping your body pressed to his, the other planted firm on the counter.

You both spiral together, and he rests his sweaty brow against the cool mirror behind you.

“You thought about me all night huh?”

He cocks his head, a soft smile lifts in the corner of his mouth.

“What? It’s after midnight!” you point to the clock on the wall.

“Baby,” he laughs, pulling away from your body, “I said, ‘all night.’“

“You really don’t want me to know what song it was do you?”

“If you don’t ask me that in Spanish I guess you’ll never know,” he presses a kiss to your brow.

You roll your eyes with a laugh. He leaves the bathroom while you brush your teeth and finish getting ready for bed.

Coming back to your room, Javi is under the covers ready for you to join him. Snuggling in close, he turns off the bedside lamp.

“Javi?”

“Hmm?” he hums back in the darkness, pulling you close.

“Are you naked under there?”

You feel his sly grin against the top of your head.

“More questions baby, and I think you can feel for yourself.”

xx

tagging: @pascalispedro, @pajamasecrets, @spacedadheadcanons, @pascalplease, @lannister-slings-and-arrows, @cptnbvcks, @coredrive, @rzrcrst, @tarrevizslas, @stardxstparadise, @winters-buck, @pascalisthepunkest, @qveenpascal, @mandoplease (if you don’t want to be tagged let me know!)

[haos-the-tea]

Seventeen Members in Maid uniforms: Hyung Line

This post is inspired by a presentation I made for the SVTredroom squad lol and I just wanted to share. These are all purely my opinion based on my time working in a maid cafe lol. This ain’t super spicy but smutty stuff is still mentioned.

Tag List: @chewmycherry​ @suhdreams​ @hyeri-yah​ @peachycheol​ @risquewonu​

Seungcheol

So I’m a firm believer that Cheol would go for a more typical style maid uniform. 

Poofy short sleeves and a fluffy skirt

Either black or white thigh high stockings, but he wouldn’t wear a garter belt or anything so his stockings would like roll down because his thighs are hella thick

plain white katyusha headband

no gloves, and he would wear small pump heals with little buckles.

black spats under his skirt instead of bloomers. 

His petti coat would probably be either white, or one of svt’s colors.

It would over all be very basic, but his style would come out in his accessories.

His apron would probably be more of a waist apron with straps that come up on his shoulders. It would also be where his uniform shines.

Apron would probably have the Seventeen logo embordered onto one of the corners

also would have cute little bows on the apron, as well as a trim on the bottom of his skirt to match the bows on his apron. 

Overall, he’d be trying to set a good example as the leader so while his outfit is a bit basic it’d still be super cute.

Now for the smutty bits. Cheol is less likely to sub, especially if he’s wearing something like this. So if you ask him to wear this then you better expect to ride him while he’s wearing it.

There’d also be a small chance that he uses his apron to tie your arms behind your back, but only if you’re comfortable with it. 

He also surprisingly likes the feeling of your hands on his stocking covered thighs, the sheer material and your touch would just be too much for him.

He doesn’t mind the uniform but don’t expect him to wear it all that often.

Closest example: 

Jeonghan

So I personally feel Hannie would go with a more Traditional/Victorian style uniform. Not for modesty’s sake but because he thinks it’s more elegant and he has appearances to keep up.

Long sleeves, ankle length skirt, black bow tied under his collar.

his sleeves would probably poof a the shoulder and then get tighter after the initial poof. 

He might wear gloves if he’s feeling it that day, but it’s all up to his mood.

Also would have a plain white Katyusha, with maybe some black ribbons at the edge of them.

He’d also definitely wear those glasses he has with the little chains? they would 100% match this look. Also instead of heals he would wear little Mary Janes with little white bows on the top.

So we all know Jeonghan is one of the freaky members, so under the dress he’d have a pair of sheer white or black stockings but they would be held by a garterbelt.

He also doesn’t wear his regular undergarments', he’s probably wear some kind of silky lingerie to tease if you just so happen to get a glance under his dress. 

Jeonghan would 100% be down for you fucking him while wearing the uniform. He would go full sub (bratty sub but still a sub)

His favorite type of scenario would be if you ‘caught’ him slacking off and take him from behind while he’s pressed against a wall. 

Closest Example: 

Joshua

Josh would probably be in the same classification as Cheol with his more standard uniform

Plain black dress with the poof sleeves, but his skirt would be a bit on the shorter side.

His apron would be a bit different from the other though, more of an ‘underbust’ style of apron that’s kinda tighter on his figure.

Instead of gloves he would probably wear those little white wrist cuffs like Chippendale dancers wear. 

He would also be one of the members who wears actual panty hose instead of thigh highs. 

His heels would probably be some of the higher ones, but they wouldn’t be stiletto thin. 

His Katyusha would be less of the traditional kind and more like the tied lace ones that just sit on your head. 

His accessories would probably be some kind of collar or ribbon as a choker cause Joshua is a little freaky like that.

I personally think Josh would love fucking in the uniform, he loves letting you have control.

He would be one of the members that would probably really get into the ‘naughty maid’ role and would probably become completely submissive to you during this.

He loves when you leave marks on his visible skin and when you choke him, it leaves him shivering and trembling beneath you. 

Another thing he enjoys is when you tear his stockings instead of taking them off. 

Closest example:

Junhui

So out of all the members, I think Jun would 100% be down for ANY TYPE of uniform.

Long skirts, short skirts, long sleeves, flowing sleeves, poof sleeves. He likes them all.

His favorites thought would be more of the high collars uniforms with ruffles on the chest. 

He would have the cutest petti coats, with a nice poof and it would either be a light pink or pale green. 

Jun would also be one of the few members comfortable wearing bloomers (aka pumpkin shorts) 

either black thigh highs or cute under the knee white socks, with a cute pair of flats.

Junhui LOVES having sex in his maid uniforms. He has a bunch of different ones for every occasion and will 100% let you peg him while wearing the dress.

He likes things starting out slow though, his favorite thing being when you slip your hand under the hem of his dress to tease him. 

Closets Example:

Soonyoung

I’ll let you know now, whatever ideas you have about what Soonie would wear. You’re right.

He would without a doubt have a keyhole maid uniform, but instead of it being a heart it would be the cat head ones (he would call it a tiger head).

His apron would even have a little cat tiger paw embroidered into it.

Instead of a Katyusha he would have a pair of tiger ears and little tiger paw gloves as well.

Besides his tiger accessories, his apron would be super cute with lots of ruffles.

His basic dress would either be black or pink, but he would be determined to find an orange one. he might even commission one.

Just like Junhui he would love fucking in the uniform, subbing or doming it doesn’t matter. He’s one of the more open members when it comes to sexy times so this would be just another fun time for him.

He’s more playful during sex so expect to hear some Horanghae’s here and there. 

Despite his usual attitude he’s also pretty good at roleplay so if you’re down for it then so is he. His favorite scenario is the maid who is secretly a spy who gets caught by their boss and fucked into submission. It’s exciting for him.

Closest example: 

Wonwoo

So...Wonwoo would be one of the member’s that is...a little harder to convince to wear the uniform. Which made it harder to find a uniform style that he would be comfortable wearing.

I feel he would go for a cyber maid kinda look, since he’s kinda a gamer nerd it would probably be something he would find...neat.

It would also differentiate from a standard uniform more than more other members.

An aline skirt, strapless dress with a kind of jacket look to it. 

his apron would be smaller, and would only tie around his waist.

Like Joshua he would also wear panty hose but his would be skin colored and would have designs that resemble circuits on them.

Surprisingly he would try out stilettos, and would actually look hella fine wearing them. 

Over all he would have  a smore sleek and stylish design to him.

I don’t think he would be comfortable having sex in the uniform, maybe a bit of foreplay but once things get serious the dress is coming off.

Closest Example: 

Jihoon

Just like Wonwoo, Jihoon isn’t to into this idea 

but if you ask with like super big puppy eyes then he would probably agree. On one condition.

he gets to be a military maid

Which usually is just a standard maid uniform with some kind of weapon.

His would probably have longer sleeves, his skirt would probably reach about knee length and he would wear a rather small pettie coat.

probably some black basketball shorts underneath though. but the skirt would be long enough that they would be hidden. 

Would probably wear some kind of platform shoes for intimidation factor.

He wouldn’t really have a lot of accessories, over all a pretty plain outfit.

Somehow you would be able to convince him to do a photoshoot and he would 100% do a ‘step on me’ picture.

Sadly Jihoon does not feel comfortable fucking in the dress unless you’re the one wearing it. So don’t expect any fun times until he’s properly changed.

After that though, expect to be up all night because he is definitely getting you to put on one that he bough for you. 

Needless to say, you’re not sleeping.

Closest Example:

[gymbunnycandiehart]

I Shouldn’t have to Beg

I’m probably more tuned-in with my passions for girliness right now than I am at other times in the year.  I can’t necessarily pinpoint the reason, though I think the arrival of cooler weather helps.  I’m also in a cutting season, meaning that with a great loss in body fat, I just feel more feminine.  To say that I’m “focused” is a bit of an understatement.  Truthfully, I wish I was as focused at other times as I am in this season of femininty.  I love it so much.  It’s been weeks since I’ve worn boxer briefs.  I don’t go three days without shaving most of my body hair.  I walk and talk with more of a girly spunk and less like that of a lumbering lumberjack.  And I spent countless hours browsing Amazon and Ebay for my next girly purchase (as soon as i have the funds, of course).

The focus is real, but I need more.  I not only need skirts, dresses, and nighties, as well as a dozen more yoga pants, I need more of you girly boys by my side, even if it’s miles and miles apart in the anonymous land of Tumblr.  The world is such a dreary, messed up place.  It all seems so dark, gloomy, and depressing.  It needs some transforming colors of pink, lavender, or coral.  It needs more soft guys, beta boys, sissies, effeminate men, crossdressers, etc.  It needs more lace and flowers to bring a sense of order to this testosterone-inhibited madness.

I shouldn’t have to beg, considering my audience of panty wearing heroes, but please focus on your girliness.  I need you to be my girly friend.  I need you to be as feminine as you can be in your given circumstances.  It’s not only me, however.  The world needs you to be girly.  It needs you in your panties and bras, in your makeup, in your dresses, skirts, heels, and hose.  It needs you in your capris, your wedge sandals, your bikinis, your yoga pants, your boyfriend jeans, and your pink, flowered, short shorts.  It needs you clean shaven and perfumed, ears pierced, and nails painted.  And it needs you, if it is your thing, plugged, locked, corseted, and willing.  Whatever is your taste, (yes, it could be that too), the world needs more of it.

You might ask, “Why does the world need me to be girly?”  The best answer is “Why not?!”  Perhaps you’re looking for something more substantial.  To keep readers from turning away from long posts, I’ll simply say this: In my opinion the world needs more girly boys because we can be a bridge which unites many islands of estranged thought.  The same would be true of manly girls.  But, I’ll save all of that mumbo jumbo for a future post.

Girly Boys can change the world!  It needs us!  It just doesn’t know it yet.

CandieHart     

[kpop-sprite]

Warm For The Season

The warm scent of the candle gathered into your sinuses. The smell of apple pie and cinnamon floating throughout the air mixing with the warm air filtering out from the electric fire place, the realistic flames flickering against Hongjoong’s face as he lowered your hips onto his eager cock. You gasped loudly; Hongjoong’s lips immediately finding your throat, placing feverish kisses against it as you released your moans while settling your body atop his cock. A smirk appeared upon your face as your pressed your forehead against Hongjoong’s, both your hips still as you cock-warmed him, the pulsing inside yourself being all that you needed to drive you mad. You stare into Hongjoong’s eyes, the twinkle from the Christmas tree lights shining back at you as his fingers trail up your body, each fingertip leaving behind a trail of goosebumps across your skin. You push your body into Hongjoong’s chest, his cock shifting inside you causing him to grip onto your shoulders, his nails digging into your skin now, a delicious groan spilling from his reddened lips, “Fuck.”

Christmas parties weren’t really your thing; not to misunderstand you, though, you loved the holidays, it’s just being around a group of people wasn’t your favorite thing anyway. Seonghwa insisted that you go with him to his close friend’s place to play games and exchange presents. So now here you were, in a house decked to the brim with some balsam leaves and red ribbons attired to them. People were talking all around you, discussing their lives and what they have been up to. Seonghwa, positioned on a red sofa, pulled you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around your waist while talking to his friend. It was then you noticed the bowl of Hershey kisses on the coffee table, you lean forward to reach for some, your body shifting on Seonghwa’s lap, him throating a groan back. You gaze behind yourself, realizing the hardening feelings your boyfriend was now experiencing. You smile to yourself, before readjusting your body on top of him, over, and over again until he is whispering into your ear, “If you’re going to move this much, you might as well let me inside, too.” It doesn’t much for you to slide your panties out of the way and get Seonghwa’s twitching cock to slide inside of you, his warmth filling you up.

You moved throughout the aisles of people, grabbing everything you needed from your shopping list. The crowds of people annoyed Yunho, he didn’t seem to care for everyone rushing to buy Christmas presents all at once, and what made it worse is that every time he turned around, you were gone again, inside some sales rack. “Are we almost done here?” He groaned out, the red bags swinging in his hands as he followed you into another dressing room. “Almost. Promise,” You smile at him, his annoyance spreading further onto his face as he plops onto the bench inside the dressing room. You drop the pants and shirt you were trying on to the floor and smirk into the mirror, Yunho’s reflection all you could look at. “You know,” you begin to say as you turn around, “you’ve really been such a good boy,” Yunho looks up at you as you begin to undo his pants, “and you seem a bit cold, allow me to warm you up.” Yunho was grinning now, his eyes buried into your irises. “You’re going to warm me up, huh?” He plants his hands onto your hips as you straddle him, slowly lowering your core onto his cock, lips linked into a passionate kiss.

Your panty hose didn’t stand a chance against the carpeted floor of the restaurant. You rubbed the run in your panty hose, quietly cursing at the tear vividly showing against the skin of your thigh. Yeosang peeked under the table, “What happened?” He whispered down to you, “I ripped my new panty hose!” You exclaimed, your whisper nearly a shout. “Shh!” Yeosang smiled, his finger pressed against his lips, “do you want people to know you’re down there to be naughty?” You rolled your eyes at him and blew your hair out of your face, “How am I being naughty?! This was your idea to begin with!” Yeosang laughed as he leaned back up, trying to seem nonchalant to what was about to happen beneath the table. You position yourself between Yeosang’s legs, undoing his belt, and pants, releasing his cock to the open air, his blush pink head twitching lightly as you lick your lips and bury his cock into your mouth. Yeosang, relaxes into his seat, the busy restaurant swirling with voices and conversations from other patrons, when suddenly you feel Yeosang jerk from you, your mouth pumping off of him suddenly. “Sunbae, ah, I didn’t expect to see you here!” Someone Yeosang knew approached him and started speaking to him. You rocked back onto your knees, huffing out a sigh of impatience, when you got a new idea. You leaned back over top Yeosang’s cock, gently blowing the tip, lapping the now reddened tip with your tongue before emerging it completely into your mouth, not moving. Yeosang hated when you cock warmed him, not because he didn’t like it, but because it drove him absolutely mad. He winced and groaned mid-conversation with his senior, you not moving, even while smiling, his cock sitting perfectly in your mouth.

The cold air stung against your skin as you ran, Mingi’s hand gripping yours tight as you both ran across the pavement of the sidewalk. “Mingi, where are we going?” He didn’t reply, he just kept dragging you along, his breath releasing out in huffs as he struggled through the people to reach the far end of the park. It was then you could see the twinkling lights and the sounds of horseshoes on the cobbled ground. “Oh, you finally made it,” the carriage driver exclaimed before helping you onto the carriage. “Sorry, I was trying really hard to make on time,” Mingi, out of breath, explained. You rest against the carriage seat as the horses begin to walk through the park. “This is a really nice surprise, Mingi,” you reassure your boyfriend who seemed to be worn out from trying to make it on time for this gift for you both. “Are you sure it’s not too cold?” He cupped your face in his hands, “your nose is red!” He exclaims as he presses his lips against your nose, the warmth making you smile. “It’s fine, Mingi,” you begin to say when your mind leads to other places, “I-I know another way we can get warm faster.” You move your body onto Mingi’s lap and slide your panties down beneath your skirt, them getting caught in the tights you were wearing as well, “put your cock inside me, we can keep each other warm.” Mingi laughed for a moment before realizing how serious you were and guiding his length within your core. The bumps from the carriage ride made you moan out, Mingi never having to physically move inside you to feel the contractions from your walls as the thumps and bumps from the cobblestone created a friction you both mewled over. “How are you enjoying the ride so far?” The carriage guide asks, your voice getting lost in the motions.

Baking cookies for the holidays was one of your more favored traditions, you deciding to allow your boyfriend to assist you this year. Christmas music played in the background as you rolled out the dough, showing San how to cut out the cookies and place them onto the cookie sheets for baking delicately to prevent tears in the thin shapes. San pressed against your back, doing hand over hand with you to knead some new dough, gingerbread sticking to your fingers. You laughed as San kissed into your neck, his body rocking with yours to the music playing over the stereo. San turns you around and grinds your body against his and before you know it, you were no longer making cookies. The way the flour covered the countertops made it seem like it really snowed inside the kitchen. San pushes you against the kitchen island before lifting your body onto the top of it, your bottom pressing into the dough. San quickly lowers his pants releasing his cock enough to slide you down onto him. You pant as he settles inside of your aching core, your shirt being pulled over your head hurriedly, your apron still attached to your waist somehow. San takes no time taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking it roughly and flicking the hardened nub with his tongue. You moan loudly, begging San to thrust his hips into you in order to get some sweet relief. San smiles devilishly before thrusting once roughly into you and stopping. “It’s so warm in here, I may never leave.” You continue to pant, your chest rising fast as San sucks on your neck, the smell of cookies baking in the air.

Not just in charge of being sexy, Wooyoung was sex. He could hardly keep his hands off you, his fingers always searching your skin, creating petals of smut across your body leaving trails of red in his wake. He loved to pull your body into him, his arms wrapped around your waist to keep you against his heated frame. He smiled so brightly when his mouth was pressed against some part of your skin, yes, you were his and he would never allow you to forget it. This evening was no different, as you were lying in bed, hair in a messy bun, and the same old pajamas you’ve worn hundreds of times before against your body, you settled into bed, with your knitting, of course. The holidays were weeks away and you were determined to complete the scarves for your friends to give to them for Christmas. It was then Wooyoung crawled into bed, his body slowly moving towards you; that hunger in his eyes. “Not tonight, Wooyoungie…” You attempt to shut it down before the all-nighter started. “Ah, but, I thought we could snuggle…” a pouty lip appeared on his face, your eyes focusing beneath your glasses, focusing on your knitting, “and I thought I could finish these scarves before Easter, love.” Wooyoung pressed his body against yours, gently pressing kisses against your clothed frame, “I just want to feel you, please baby? Just let me slide inside you, I promise that’s all I want.” You could hear the want in his voice and knew he would keep pestering you if you didn’t give him at least this one thing. “Fine, but nothing more, you promise? I really have to finish these scarves.” Wooyoung nodded quickly and threw up his scouts honor before assisting you in removing your plaid pajama pants and heather gray panties with the torn elastic; he then pulled you into his body once more, your bottom pressed firmly into his pelvis, Wooyoung gently guiding his cock between your lips, his hands rubbing the soft skin of your thighs as he did so, your hands became shaky as you continued to knit, your body feeling every twitch within you. You knew it was going to be a long night.

“This way, stay in line, don’t forget your candy cane!” These were the words you repeated all night long at the mall acting as Santa’s elf. You hated this job. Hated the sounds of the stupid bells on the tips of your toes. Hated the disrespectful parents coming in demanding their child be seen next. And furthermore, you hated the loudness of the children screaming as they got on Santa’s lap. The only reason you agreed to this job was because of the guy playing Santa this year, Choi Jongho. You’ve admired Jongho for a while now, and when you heard that he was going to be Santa at the Cascade mall, well, you had to risk it all to try and meet him. As nine o’clock rolled around, you finally were able to assist the last child out with their parent, locking the velvet rope behind them. “Ai-ya, finally done!” You exclaimed as you walked into the back to change out of your annoying clothes. You threw off those elf clothes faster than you could imagine, your bare body reaching into your bag to grab your leggings when you heard cough from the side of you. You turn to look and realize Jongho had been sitting there watching you undress like the hurricane you are. “OH SHI—“ you try to grab something to cover your body, the whole backpack being picked up instead, “I didn’t know anyone was back here,” you sigh, clenching your bag tightly. Jongho shuffles in his place, wearing just a white t-shirt and the Santa pants, “it’s fine,” he reassures you, barely. You start to pick up your clothes to leave when you look back over at him, his eyes never leaving you completely. This is the kind of moment you’ve been waiting for, you swallow hard and drop your bag to the floor, its insides expelling from the zipper. “Hey, Jongho,” he looks up at you as you move towards him, “can I help you wrap that package?” Jongho’s face turns beet red, “W-what package?” He asks, his voice shaky as you lean forward and place a palm across the hard lump in his pants, “this one. Let me help you keep it warm.” You begin to tug on his belt buckle, Jongho frozen in place.

[copias-thrall]

DIY

(Part: 1; 2; 3; 4; 5; 6; 7; 8)

It’s been a trying day. The staffing agency had gotten you another contract, and the firm wanted to meet with you in person for some reason. Usually you’re just traded around with firms already familiar with you, and you can’t recall the last time you needed to be respectable. You tend to dye your hair when your mood changes, so the fading pink had needed to be taken care of.

“What do you care about their opinion?” Mary had said.

“This would be a little more money,” you’d shrugged. “I could get the good coffee and that mochi you like.”

“I can feed myself,” Mary had snapped.

“Then why don’t you?” you’d retorted.

He’d made a sour face at you when you’d said that.

In the end, Mary had suggested going black, and the two of you had had hair-dye day where you’d introduced Mary to the wonder of Vaseline to keep the dye off his skin.

“Look at you, making me all respectable,” he’d quipped as you’d slathered him up.

“Yes, heaven forbid you lose your coveted street cred because your ears and hairline aren’t mottled with black half the time.”

While most of the dye had ended up in your hair, a few errant blotches ended up staining the tiles and shower curtain (and, ok—the hand print on your upper arm when Mary forgot himself). Mary had called you a spoilsport when you’d refused to fuck in the shower (“What? It’s cool with all the black dye running down our bodies. Come on!”). But in the end you were rather happy with how the fresh dye made your pixie bob look sleek and polished. 

Mary had scrutinized you in the mirror.

“I don’t like it. Makes you look like you’re trying too hard to be normal.”

You’d made a face at him. “Well, we can’t all work at Mickey’s and dress like Oscar the Grouch kicked us out of bed for eating crackers.”

Mary’d lightly bitten your neck. “I’m taking that as a compliment.” He’d then run his fingers through the shorter hair at the back of your head. “You’d look pretty hot with an undercut.”

“I know,” you’d said as you’d winked at him.

He’d snorted. “Modest too.”

You’d shrugged. “Getting an undercut was one of my many tiny actions of rebellion. As long as I kept my hair down, no one was the wiser.”

“They never caught you?” 

You’d sighed. “They did. Bitch of thing too—a picture of the school pep rally in the monthly newsletter for parents happened to catch me in the background.”

“Shit. What happened?”

“After all the screaming about boundaries and disrespect? TThey’d shaved my whole head.”

Mary’d stilled behind you.

“They … what?”

You’d leaned into the mirror, primping your hair unnecessarily.

“Buzzed all my hair off. Said I should never do things by half measures.”

Mary’d given you a look in the mirror, so you’d just smiled brightly at him.

“It’s just hair, Mary. Beside, all my schoolmates thought I was edgy as fuck.”

He’d turned you to face him.

“I really fucking hate your parents.”

You’d just patted him on the cheek. “Why waste the energy.”

“It’s just …” he’d leaned against the washer/drier as you began to clean up. “I had to be like, 15? And I came home from a friend’s house with badly bleached hair and a safety pin through my navel. My mum was in the kitchen, and I told her I wanted to be called Viscount Doom from now on. You know what she said?” 

(It was a rhetorical question.)

“She said, ‘That’s nice, dear—now take out the trash’.” He’d chuckled. “I was always her son first, you know?”

You’d slid a hand under his shirt to stick your thumb in his unadorned belly button.

“Did she make you take the safety pin out.”

Mary’d grinned at you. “Ah, well. The fucker got infected. Angry red blotches with pus and shit. I had to come clean to mum, and she bundled me off to urgent care. Whoops.”

You’d traced your thumb along his belly button, feeling now the obvious bump of scar tissue.

“So you were always fucking crusty.”

“Yeah, maybe,” he’d said as he’d crowded into you and dragged your hand down to his crotch.

The actual "chat” (they’d purposefully pussyfooted around calling it an interview) had gone fine; a girl about your age—probably an intern—had read a bunch of inane questions off a piece of paper in a monotone before a harried-looking woman came in and asked you questions surely your resume could have answered.

The firm itself, however, was a 30min walk from the bus, and about 90 more minutes including a bus transfer away from your apartment. You’d gotten up at 5am so you could leave by 6 so you weren’t late for your 9am appointment (“Jesus. Who schedules interviews for the crack of dawn?” “Sadists, that’s who.”). So, of course, you’d gotten there an hour early and—with no coffee shop in sight—you’d sat on a concrete wall across the street that bordered a parking lot. 

Like a creep.

You’d then been asked to wait for another hour because “an earlier meeting was running late.” The receptionist had at least taken pity on you and brought you a steaming cup of Dunks and a chocolate doughnut.

It was noon by the time you made it out of there—which meant that there was no way you were making the 12:25pm bus. Which meant you didn’t make the 1:33pm transfer, and you had to cool your jets in a fast casual restaurant for 45min. The next bus had never shown. When you finally made it onto the transfer bus, you’d dozed off and had woken up several stops past your destination; you’d opted to just walk back to your apartment instead of waiting the questionable amount of time for the next bus in the opposite direction. 

By the time you finally get back to your place, you’re limping from the blisters your cheap dress shoes had given you, and it’s nearly 4pm. When you enter your apartment, you’re surprised to see Mary on your couch, guitar in hand and scribbling down notes. At the clink of you dropping your keys into the skull ashtray that had just appeared one day, he looks up.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, sounding much more harsh than you intended as you kick off your shoes.

“Well, hello to you too. I couldn’t hear myself think at my place.” He gives you a minute shrug.

You don’t know why this irritates you.

“Well maybe think about giving me the same courtesy,” you snap as you limp toward your bedroom. “I need to lie down.”

You don’t even get changed, just untuck your pussy-bow blouse and unzip your pencil skirt before flopping down onto your bed.

“Interview not go well?” asks Mary’s from your doorframe

You wave your hand. “The interview was fine, but it was a fucking trial and a half getting there and back. Thank god I won’t be onsite.”

“Yeah. I was kind of wondering where you were.”

You just snort and start to wrestle off your nude hose, but then Mary’s kneeling there and rolling them down you. You hiss when he gets to your feet.

“Fuck, your feet are wrecked.”

“Remind me to bring flip flops or something next time.”

“K.”

He tosses your pantyhose at your laundry basket (they only half make it in), then he leans down to kiss the instep on each foot.

“Do you want me to eat you out?” he asks as his hands travel up the inside of your legs.

You lean up to look at him. “Yeah, actually. Would you?”

Mary grins at you. “Ok, baby doll.”

You lie back down as Mary begins to kiss and nip up your legs. You help him to get your panties off and to push up your skirt—then he’s diving into your folds, his tongue enthusiastically lapping at your clit. Unfortunately, you’re just too exhausted to really get into it, and Mary notices your lack of engagement. His head pops up.

“Fingers?”

“Fingers,” you agree.

He wipes off his chin with the back of his hand before climbing onto your bed. You shimmy out of your skirt before he’s rolling you onto your side. He positions himself behind you, his hand sliding down your stomach until it reaches your lips. You arch back into him at the feeling of his finger slip sliding across your sensitive clit.

“Oh yeah, Mare …”

He doesn’t tease you, just keeps up a steady motion, changing it up to avoid touch numbness. Despite your lethargy, you pant and squirm against him as your blood pools and your orgasm slowly builds. He’s been giving your neck little nips and sucks, but as you get close to blowing, Mary leans over to engage you in a wet, sloppy kiss. It ratchets your arousal, and you suck his tongue into your mouth, saliva leaking out the other side, as you begin to press back against his hand. He quickens his finger, and you cry out at the burst of pleasure. Your orgasm swells and breaks soon after, and you moan and thrash a little as Mary works you through the waves.

When you sag, sated, he gives your ear a lick, then removes his hand.

“Mmm,” is all you manage as you roll onto your stomach.

“Yeah, I know. C’mon, let’s get you out of that top.”

“No,” you say into the bed.

“Yes,” he says as he starts to tug up the hem. “You’ll thank me later.”

You just grunt at him.

He manages to get the material up to your armpits before you’re obliged to move by lifting your arms—and even then all you do is hold out your arms.

“You’re a pain in my fucking ass.”

“Mmphb.”

Through minimal effort on your part, Mary finally removes both your top and your bra before rolling you this way and that to get you under the covers. You’re asleep before he even leaves the room.

You sleep, nude, sprawled out and face mashed into your pillow. It isn’t until much later when you wake. It’s almost certainly because Mary is on all fours over you, mashing his face into your neck. You must move in some tiny way, because he stills.

“Mare,” you mumble groggily into the pillow.

“Shh,” he breaths. “Don’t. Just …” His mouth moves to your ear. “Can I?” he whispers. “I was so good earlier.”

“Mhm,” you agree sleepily.

“Stay still then,” he growls as he shifts about. “Don’t. Move.”

You feel the head of his cock enter you, and you clench and moan. Mary’s other hand is quick on your head, smashing your face further into the pillow.

“Shut up,” he hisses, then his hand is gone.

He takes the tip out, then slides it back in. 

Then out. 

Then in.

He teases himself like that a few more times—making pleased rumbles—before finally sliding all the way home. You bite the pillow in an effort not to twitch or make noise. The bed jostles when his balled hands land on either side of you, supporting himself up. He takes a handful of slow, smooth pumps in and out of you, making little Mmm noises. It’s a nice feeling that you relax into—silently. 

He speeds up a little … and then a lot … until he’s pounding into you with such force that there's an audible slap! slap! slap! as he makes contact with your skin and your one arm is jostled slightly off the bed. Mary moans, and changes up to long, hard strokes that hit your sweet spot deliciously; you know your breaths are labored at the strain of staying motionless and quiet, but luckily, any sound you’re making is being drowned out by Mary’s grunts every time the bowl of his pelvis smacks into the meat of your ass. 

You’re pretty slick from your arousal, and Mary easily pumps in and out of you. You can feel your heartbeat in your pussy—and your frustration with not being able to touch yourself increases. Mary suddenly grabs the fat on your back hard enough you almost cry out. He lowers himself down onto his forearms and starts to fuck into you with quicker, deeper thrusts that are no longer quite hitting your G-spot—much to your chagrin. He’s not quite laying on your back, but he’s close enough that you can hear the rasping air through his nose and the Uhn noises he’s making—his breath hot and moist on the nape of your neck.

You expect him to finish like that, so you’re surprised when he heaves himself up to a kneeling position. His hands grip your hips hard, and then he’s yanking you back onto his dick as he buries himself deep into you. 

And again. 

And again. 

When he accidentally hits your cervix, you do let out a little mewl, but he doesn’t seem to notice—cock still deep in you and his hands still clamped on your sides. After a moment, you finally feel the tension drain out of him, and he releases his grip, flopping down on the bed beside you. Sluggishly you begin to move your limbs, but Mary gathers you up to him with a soft C’mere. He presses his sweat-cool body against your back and kisses your neck once before he’s maneuvering your vibrator (oh, hello) between your legs.

You reach your hand down to help position it to your liking, mashing into it once … twice … thrice, and then you’re moaning and twitching—the nails of your free hand digging into Mary’s thigh—before the intensity has you finally shying away from the toy lest you make a mess.

Mary clicks the vibe off before letting it go, and you twist around until you’re facing him. You grip his hair in your hands and kiss him deeply, smashing your slickness into him as your cunt still gives an errant spasm or two. He grabs your ass and pulls you into him.

“Yeah, mash that wet pussy into me—I want to smell you on me all night.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You fucking love it.”

“I should pee on you.”

“Do you think I’ve never been pe—”

You shove a pillow in his face. “OH MY GOD—do not finish that sentence.”

His hand shoots out and presses on your bladder. You shriek and push him away from you, and he subsequently falls off the bed with an undignified noise. He looks up at you like a disgruntled cat, so you just cackle and sprint out of the bedroom. You can hear him start after you, but he’s not quick enough, and you manage to lock the bathroom door behind you before he can catch you.

You’re too tired to cook, and you’re wondering if you can count on getting that contract enough to order takeout when Mary surprises you; he takes out a beat up looking Tupperware from your fridge. Something reddish-brown sloshes in it.

“It’s my kitchen-sink goulash.” He beams.

You put a smile on your face.

“Aww, Mare. What’s … in it?” you ask as you squint at the contents.

He pokes you in the ribs. 

“Just fucking try it.”

You reheat it in a big pot, and it looks edible enough—elbow macaronis, ground meat, tomato sauce, green … things. Once you’re settled at your rusty cafe table with the hot food, you dig in and you have to admit that it’s actually not bad. Mary has a smug look on his face as you tuck in.

“Shut up,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your thoughts are loud.”

He just giggles at you.

“So what is in it?”

“Uh,” says Mary as he chews. “Frozen hamburger patties, spaghetti sauce, noodles, and some okra from the Latin grocer near me.”

You make a thoughtful noise.

“I wouldn’t have guessed okra. I knew it wasn’t green beans, but.”

“I swear that store is the only reason none of us have scurvy.”

Afterwards he packs up his guitar.

“I gotta be getting back to my place.” He licks your nose, and you sputter. He grins. “But thanks for the sex.”

“Yeah, well …” you say as you rub at your nose, “thanks for the Goulash.”

He looks at you for a moment before slipping a hand into your robe to rest on a love handle.

“I didn’t come by just to hear myself think, you know.”

You roll your eyes, but step into his space.

“I kinda got that, Mare.”

You tap your lips, and he leans down to kiss you.

⬅️Previous | Next ➡️

[indiavolowetrust]

unexpected presents are best unwrapped.

part 1

part 2

3

“I knew I picked the right color for you,” Asmodeus says, taking a closer look at my makeup. The soft pink lip tint -- blushing peach, according to Asmo -- is just visible enough to highlight the natural flush in my cheeks, the hue matching the eye shadow applied to the corners of my eyes. A light coat of invisible mascara coats my eyelashes. Asmodeus takes out a powder tin and gently dabs at the skin just below my eyes, further concealing my under eye bags. “You should let me do this more often, Maria! Be my little doll and I’ll pretty you up in every way possible.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary,” I say, stifling back both a shiver and a yawn.

Asmodeus draws his face closer to mine, gently turning my face this way and that as he admires his work. “But you look so cute!” he protests. “I’ll even let you practice on me, if you want.”

Another yawn threatens to escape. This time, however, I give in to the urge. Asmo continues to fuss over my appearance, brushing stray curls from my face in an effort to tame them. The locks simply pop back into place, as if refusing to obey its master, and Asmo tries at least three more times before pinning the offending curl into place. His hands run over the pink chiffon of my dress, smoothing out the wrinkles. I do little to discourage him. While Asmo’s barrage of attempts to tame my appearance are somewhat bothersome, a nearly sleepless night has drained me of my energy and will to resist. Satan glances in my direction as Asmo does so, shaking his head.

“Leave her be,” Satan says, turning another page. He props his feet up on the table, sitting on the sidelines of the party, and Lucifer only casts the barest of disapproving glances in his direction. “All you’re doing is tiring her out.”

Asmo pouts, then turns to face me again. “Only if you promise not to smudge any of your makeup. I worked way too hard on that.”

I nod. “Promise.”

Satan sighs as Asmo all but bounds away, and I look at him with appreciation. He offers a smile. After a moment of watching Mammon, Belphie, and Levi yell at each other over a card game, I decide to join him. The pink chiffon of my dress rustles as I sit down in the chair beside the Avatar of Wrath, both of my hands forcing my skirt not to expose the skin above my thighs. Satan regards me with mild amusement over the cover of his book, his attention momentarily diverted.

“I take it that Asmo chose that for you,” he observes. “Unless you chose that frilly thing for yourself.”

“I -- I did say yes to him dressing me up for the party,” I admit, smiling sheepishly. “I just didn’t think that he would go this, um, overboard. It took hours for him to pick something out.”

Satan arches a brow. “Well, it does look nice,” he says, eyes trailing the strapless bodice and ruffled, piled chiffon. “Though it’s not very you.”

I merely nod in assent, now fighting back the urge to shiver. My hands instinctively bring themselves to my bare shoulders, the skin exposed due to the strapless bodice, and I press my thighs together in an effort to warm them. The sheer hose does absolutely nothing but draw attention to the hint of skin beneath, a mockery of modesty, and the short heels Asmo has chosen for me pinch and rub at my feet painfully. At the very least, Asmo has managed to gather most of my curls into a high ponytail, securing the mass with a combination of hair pins and hair spray. I absentmindedly tuck a stray curl behind my ear.

“Aren’t you going to join?” I ask.

Satan takes a moment to regard Beel stealing the snacks from under his brothers’ noses, Mammon yelling out in frustration at losing, and Lucifer quietly slipping out of the room. “No, I think I’d much rather stay here,” he says. “Will you?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ll -- I’m just a little tired.”

I don’t think he really wants me here either, I want to add, but I keep my mouth shut. I shouldn’t bring up personal issues now. Not at his birthday, at least. I could bother Levi about it afterwards, if he were still upset.

“Then you should retire for the night,” he suggests. “Levi probably wouldn’t notice. I’m a little surprised we were able to drag him out of his room in the first place.”

“What about --”

“Asmo and Beel can take care of clean-up afterwards,” Satan dismisses, reading my thoughts. He regards me with a sharpness I hadn’t noticed before, as if sensing something unpleasant, and his gaze flickers. “You should get some rest.”

* * *

In the end, I only end up staring at my ceiling. The hours tick by slowly, my bedside lamp illuminating my room. The uncomfortable heels lie in a pile at the end of my bed, my panties hung over one of the posts. My pantyhose sits in a discarded heap next to it. Despite the sleep deprivation -- more importantly, the intensity of last night’s nightmares -- I can’t relax enough to sleep. That nagging feeling of wrongness tugs at the back of my mind, forcing me back into consciousness, and I find myself startling awake each time I nearly drift off.

I haven’t bothered to take off the dress Asmodeus gave me. I haven’t bothered to take off my makeup either, letting the products simply sit on my skin. Asmo would be appalled -- clogged pores and little sleep are the enemies of beauty, after all -- but I can’t bring myself to do so. Somehow, my mind and body have been throttled by some unknown source of unease. As if I were pursued prey. The discontent forces me to stay alert and on edge, despite the lack of a reason for it.

Maybe my mind has begun to finally wither under the stress of the Devildom. That could be it. Or maybe the upcoming exams are occupying my thoughts more than I thought they were, eating away at me. My eyes draw themselves lazily around the room as I let my mind wander, all hope of sleep gone again. If stress from a simple round of exams could do this to my body and psyche, how can I expect to survive the rest of the year? How can I expect to avoid being eaten by some lesser demon?

I turn over in bed, sighing, and reach for my bedside lamp. I could at least avoid running up the House of Lamentation’s electric bill. My fingers brush by an object on the nightstand, the plastic rustling --

I catch the packaged figurine before it can fall to the ground, nearly falling out of bed myself. I quickly turn the package over in my hands, inspecting it for damage. A wave of relief floods me when I notice that the Lord of Shadow figurine is unharmed. The exhaustion must have gotten the better of me this afternoon: Levi’s present is completely unwrapped, still in the plastic bag it was brought home in, and, most importantly, not within Levi’s possession. Levi had seemed distant from me at his birthday celebration somehow; he must have thought I had forgotten it. It would only make sense that he would be offended.

Right?

* * *

I stand in front of Levi’s door, unwrapped present in hand. I hadn’t bothered to put on anything else but a pair of chinelas: my appearance is nearly the same as it was at the party, save for the lack of pantyhose and heels. Silently, I regret my indecision to grab a cardigan or sweater of some kind. Thanks to the cut of the dress, my shoulders and back are exposed to the cold air of the House of Lamentation, and I stiffen in an attempt to stop myself from shivering. I wait a moment in front of Levi’s door, taking in a breath, and step forward.

I knock gently at Levi's door, then step back.

No response.

I try again, louder this time. Again, there is no response. I stand, small and shivering, in the hall, willing my hands not to drop the figurine. He is in there. He should be, anyway, seeing how the ruckus of the party has died down nearly a few hours ago. I force myself to stand in place. A few minutes pass. There are little, if any, signs of activity in the room before me, the sounds of movement just barely audible. And then there is the telltale blip of Devil Kombat II: Return of the Devil Who Came From Another World and Now Must Fight for His Honor, and the flashing of lights are nearly visible through a crack beneath the door.

He’s ignoring me, I realize with irritation.

I knock as hard as I can, putting as much force as I into it. The door slams open almost immediately, nearly smashing me in the face, and I stumble back just quickly enough to dodge it.

Levi stands in the doorway, snarling. “For the last time, I --”

“Levi!” I squeak.

His gaze searches the darkness in front of him, looking for the source of the voice, then he immediately looks down. Levi and I stare at each other for a moment, my surprise mirrored on his visage. Neither of us speak. His eyes draw from my face to my dress, my dress to the present, and then the present to my face again.

part 4

[strictpunishedhubby]

Noch mit feuchtem Gesicht, weil noch immer Tränen aus meinen Augen und  Nase flossen, musste ich mich vor einem Spiegel stellen. Zu meinem Schrecken erblickte ich einen verheulten, erbärmlich jammernden Übeltäter, angezogen in Kleinmädchenunterwäsche, rosa Gummihöschen und einem kleinkindhaften Schlafanzug, rosa Hose und das Oberteil mit lustigen, bunten Figürchen! “Schau genau hin! So eine Rotznase muss regelmäßig versohlt werden und wie ein kleines, vorlautes und faules Kind erzogen werden! Du solltest Dich gewaltig schämen! Aber ich mache mir gerne die Mühe, Dich weiterhin wie einen kleinen Flegel zu erziehen! Sei nur weiter so faul und unartig! Dein Po wird es schon von mir zu spüren bekommen!”, sprach sie lachend, und war wohl mit ihrem Werk zufrieden.                            

With my face still wet, because tears still flowed from my eyes and nose, I had to stand in front of a mirror. To my horror, I saw a howled, pitifully wailing wrongdoer, dressed in little girl's underwear, pink rubber panties and toddler pajamas, pink pants and the top with funny, colorful figures! "Take a close look! Such a snotty nose has to be spanked regularly and brought up like a little, cheeky and lazy child! You should be ashamed of yourself! But I would like to take the trouble to continue to educate you like a little lout! Just be so lazy and naughty! Your bottom will get to feel it from me! ”, She laughed, and was probably satisfied with her work.

[spriteandnicotine]

Haikyuu’s Drag Race Episode 8

Kenma Kozume: Hello and welcome back to Haikyuu’s Drag Race. Last week, our queens tried to turn trash into treasure, but Iwaizumi’s look belonged in the dumpster. This week, contestants will be recreating a TV show character’s look that we assign them! Good luck, and readers? Don’t forget to vote!

Kuroo (Avatar the Last Airbender)

brown hair french braided so it lays over her shoulder

turquoise pin holding bangs in place

Blue eye shadow

nude lip

blue robe-style dress

lined with white fur

tan fur-lined boots

Akaashi (The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina)

platinum blonde medium length hair that has “natural” curls

black one inch wide headband

brown eye shadow

pink lips

black dress with long sleeves that are lace

nude panty-hose

black strappy heels

Oikawa (Boku No Hero Academia)

Shoulder-length fluffy pink hair

cream antennae

pink foundation

dark black makeup around the eyes

golden contacts

black choker

gray jacket

purple camouflage crop top

black leggings with a gray stripe down the side

cream colored bracelets

purple heels

Tendou (Food Wars)

long blonde hair with a braid on each side going back into a pony tail while the rest of the hair is down

teal eye shadow

light pink lips

hot pink contacts

turquoise off the shoulder dress with white accents

necklace with crystal quartz attached

white heels

UWU vote here!

Taglist: @strawbirb

Want to be added? DM Me :)

[breanime]

Tiny Little Increments (Part Two)

Warning: It’s a Logan story, so...steamy...

*gif not mine*

“Holy shit,” Logan sighed out, flopping onto his back on your bed, “That was incredible.”

You laughed, sliding off of the bed and grabbing a pair of panties from the floor. “Oh shit,” you said, stumbling as you stood up again. Your legs were a little wobbly, and you had Logan to thank for it.

“That’s what you get for getting out of bed,” he grinned, “What are you doing?”

“Gotta get breakfast started,” you answered, pulling on a pair of leggings and a T-shirt, “You want some coffee before you go?”

“Mm,” Logan sat up, still grinning, “So this is how it feels to get kicked out?” He put a hand over his heart. “I’m wounded.”

“I offered you coffee,” you shrugged.

He laughed, getting up and getting dressed. “Coffee sounds good,” he answered, “Not as good as you on me, but…”

You rolled your eyes, still laughing. “I could be persuaded to make you breakfast too.”

His answering smile made your stomach flip. It was a new feeling, and a part of you wanted to swallow it down and never feel it again, but another part…liked it.

You led Logan downstairs, kicking some of the toys out of the way. Your brother grinned from his spot on the couch when he saw Logan.

“That your car out front?” He asked.

Logan nodded. “Yeah. You into cars?”

“Yeah, how fast does it go?” He asked excitedly.

“Very,” Logan grinned.

“Logan, you remember my brother, Cameron?” You said, putting your hand on Cameron’s head as you walked past him into the kitchen. “I’m making breakfast,” you said, turning to regard him, “If you want to eat, you need to clear all that crap from the stairs.”

Cameron got up with a groan. He was about to go to the steps when he stopped and turned back to Logan. “Can I see the inside of your car?”

“Cam—” You started.

“Sure,” Logan answered, “If you convince your sister to go on another date with me,” He said with a wink.

Cameron grinned, running up the stairs screaming “I’m gonna see the inside of a Rolls Royce!”

You started the coffee, smiling despite yourself as Logan walked into the kitchen behind you. “Another date?” You asked, back to him.

He came up behind you, hands on your waist. “I’m not well experienced in the whole second date thing,” he admitted, “But maybe we can give it a try.”

“We haven’t even had a first date, yet,” you said back. You felt that feeling in your stomach again.

“Ah,” he grinned, backing up from you. He put a finger up. “So you want to go out with me?”

“I never said that!” You laughed.

“Where do you want to go?” He asked. “I pretty much make my own hours, we can do something tonight, if you want.”

“What’s happening tonight?” Your sister asked, coming into the kitchen with her dingy pink bunny in one hand and a clipboard in the other. She sat at the table, raising an eyebrow at Logan. “You’re still here?”

“Hey,” he greeted her, flashing her a smile that could charm a snake, “I didn’t get your name last night.”

“Emma,” she answered. “You’re Logan, right?” He nodded in response. “You’re taking my sister somewhere tonight?”

“No,” you said before he could answer, “he’s not.”

“Why not?” Emma asked.

“I’m free tonight,” Logan made a show of sighing and leaning against the counter, “But your sister doesn’t seem to want to go out with me.”

“Why not?” She asked, addressing you this time.

“Too busy,” you answered.

“What do you have to do?” Logan asked.

“Take care of the kids, clean the house,” you answered, “Get everything ready for school on Monday, try to fix the heater, get groceries…”

“We can take care of all that,” your other brother, Jeremy, walked into the kitchen with a cigarette between his lips. Ethan, yet another brother, was behind him.

“Seriously?” You frowned. “Nicotine for breakfast?”

“Nothing else was available,” he said back with a smirk. He turned to Logan, offering his hand. “You must be Mr. Rolls Royce.”

“Logan,” he said with a grin, “And you’re one of the brothers?”

“Second oldest,” you answered as you rinsed out some coffee mugs, “His name’s Jeremy and he’s a pain in the ass.”

“All true,” Jeremy said. He pointed behind him with his thumb. “This is Ethan, third oldest, least good-looking.” Ethan swiped at him, but Jeremy dodged easily. “So you want to take our sister out?”

“Yes,” Logan answered.

“No,” you said at the same time.

“You still haven’t given me a good reason why not,” Logan said.

“I’m busy,” you said, rubbing a stick of butter on a pan.

“We got the house, Y/N,” Jeremy said, “Have fun.” He walked past Logan to reach into a cabinet and grab a bowl. “She’s such a fucking martyr,” he whispered conspirously to Logan, “Please take her off our hands, man.”

“Hey!” You cried while Logan laughed. “Here,” you handed him a cup of coffee, turning and handing the other two mugs to Jeremy and Ethan, “What’s the bowl for?” You asked Jeremy.

“Frank’s passed out in the yard, gonna wake ‘em up with some nice hose water,” he answered, grinning. Ethan laughed, following behind him as Emma jumped up, trying to convince them not to.

“And Frank is…?” Logan asked now that the kitchen was clear again.

“My Dad,” you said, cracking an egg over the pan, “I think you saw him last night.”

“Oh yeah,” he leaned back against the counter, “Can I ask?”

You shrugged. The fact that Logan was still here—and wanting to take you out on a date—was a little surprising. But you knew it wouldn’t last, his interest in you. It was best to get it out of the way now, get rid of all those…butterflies in your tummy. “Frank’s an alcoholic, a drug addict,” you shrugged again, cracking another egg, “He doesn’t stay here all the time, it’s mostly me with the kids.”

“How many of you are there?” He asked, voice soft.

“Six total, including me,” you answered, cracking a few more eggs. “Liam’s upstairs, he’s only three.” You started scrambling the eggs, not looking up. “The boys help a lot, and I do what I can to provide for the kids…”

“What about your Mom?”

You scoffed. “She left when Liam was one. We’re better off without her.” You turned a bit to regard Logan. His face was serious, and you realized that this was the first real conversation the two of you have ever had. “Last night was fun,” you started.

“And this morning,” he added with a slight grin.

You couldn’t help but smile back. “And this morning,” you added, “But I’m not like you. I don’t make my own hours, I’m not a CEO, I don’t own a phone that looks like it can fly or it’s from the future—”

“—It’s a prototype,” he interrupted lightly, “I can get you one, if you want—”

“—Logan,” you said firmly, turning around to face him fully, “I know what this is to you. It’s a fun little trip to the scummy side of town with a side of pussy, and that’s fun for you, but this is my life. I have bills, kids to take care of…the me you met last night was just for last night. This,” you gestured with the spatula around you to the crooked cabinets, the dingy wallpaper, the table with piles of crap all over it, “This is who I am all the time, so…” You took a breath. You didn’t know what to say. More to the point—you didn’t know why you were so sad. People never stayed; you knew that. Which is why it made no sense that Logan wanted to see you again. It made no sense that you had butterflies when he smiled, and that even though he had been fucking you senseless all night, you couldn’t get over the intimacy of him opening the car door for you, couldn’t get over the feel of his hands on your waist. It made no sense. “So…” You tried again.

Logan stepped up to you, and you melted when he put his hand on your chin, lifting your face up towards his. “I like who you are,” he said softly, “And this may come as a surprise to you, but I’ve gotten pretty good at reading people in my work. You think I didn’t know that you weren’t just some club bunny? I saw you the moment you walked into that club,” he smiled, “Saw you flash that pretty smile to get in for free, saw the way you charmed the bartenders to giving you free booze…”

“So you knew I was poor,” you said, not impressed.

“Figured as much,” he was honest, you’d give him that, “Didn’t know how severe it was until we pulled up.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter to me, though. What matters is that you’re fun, and beautiful, and a damn good time.”

You felt that fluttering in your stomach again. “I’m not… I can’t just go club-hopping every night.” You said weakly.

“I know,” Logan smiled, “and I also know that, the moment I saw you, I felt… alive again, in a way I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I know you don’t do this a lot, and I don’t do this—ever,” he admitted, “but, uh… I’d like to take you out—and not just to a club or something, I want to take you on a date, where we can talk.” He shrugged, hand still on your face. “You can tell me more about your shitty parents, and I can tell you about my opioid-addicted mother and asshole father.”

Your eyebrows shot up. You hadn’t tried to picture Logan’s parents before, but if you had, you wouldn’t have conjured what he just said.

“Yeah,” he chuckled, “I’ll tell you all about it…” He leaned down and pressed his lips against yours. It was a much softer kiss than the others had been, and you leaned into him. He pulled back with a brilliant smile. “…Tonight?”

You sighed. You heard footsteps, so you moved away from Logan.

“Daddy’s gone,” Emma announced with a grimace.

“It’s for the best,” you said, moving past Logan to grab plates.

“He’s at the bar,” Jeremy said, tossing the bowl into the already full sink, “having his liquid breakfast.”

“Which is so much worse than a nicotine breakfast.” Ethan murmured, smirking. Jeremy flicked him off.

“It’s not fair!” Emma pouted. “You guys wouldn’t let me bring him in last night, and now you ran him off before he can even have any breakfast!”

“He wasn’t gettin’ any breakfast, anyway,” you said back, passing Ethan a plate, “Cam!” You shouted. “Bring Liam, it’s time to eat!”

“He’s our Dad!” Emma argued.

“He’s an asshole,” Jeremy said.

“And a prick.” Ethan added.

“And he’s not allowed in the house when he’s loaded,” you finished. This was an old argument. “Eat your food, Em.”

She sat back, crossing her arms. “Not hungry,” she pouted.

You turned to her, a hand on your hips. “Emma…” You started.

“I was thinking,” Logan said, cup against those lips that were just on yours, “And feel free to say no,” he said, grinning as Cameron came down with Liam in his arms, “But I was gonna see if anyone wanted to take a spin in the Rolls Royce?”

You watched, trying to keep the grin off of your face as your siblings all perked up—even Emma.

“Seriously?” She asked, momentarily forgetting about Frank.

“Sure,” Logan answered, “After breakfast?”

“Hell yeah,” Jeremy grinned.

“So Y/N’s going on another date with you?” Cam asked, sitting beside Emma at the table.

Suddenly six sets of eyes were on you, including Logan’s; dark and foreign and unnecessarily dazzling. Jeremy was smirking at you, and Cameron and Emma were giving you matching puppy dog eyes. Ethan, who was holding Liam now, was bouncing him on his knee and grinning at you.

You took a sip of your coffee, trying to hide the smile that just wouldn’t go away. “Tonight,” you said casually, “Dinner,” you looked over at Logan.

Cameron and Emma cheered, which made Liam start clapping and cheering as well, and even Jeremy and Ethan looked pleased. Traitors.

Logan leaned forward and kissed you, totally unbothered by the audience of adolescents a few feet away. “Can’t wait.”

Logan stayed for the rest of the morning, eating breakfast with you and the kids like it was nothing, like he had been slumming it in the hood with you for ages. After breakfast, he took the kids for a ride while you cleaned up.

He came behind you, a hand on your waist and the other on your neck. “I gave Jeremy the keys,” he whispered in your ear.

You turned. “You what?”

“He’s 17,” Logan shrugged as you pushed him away, “The kids wanted to go to the arcade.”

“They don’t have any money,” you said back.

“I gave ‘em some,” he pulled you back to him, kissing you, “Bought us some time.”

You bit your lip. Really, it was time for him to go. You had a lot to do, and you already broke your own rules by agreeing to a date.

“I told Jeremy to stop by the grocery store,” Logan said with a grin, “Emma already had a list on her.”

“Of course she did,” you rolled your eyes with a smile, “That girl is a walking, talking memo.”

“I like your siblings,” Logan said, “I mean, I like you more, but…”

That phrase, that one phrase—I like your siblings—was so simple and so honest and so genuine, yet it had your heart pounding. You ran over to him, throwing your arms around his shoulders and ramming your lips against his. Logan made a surprised, pleased sound, and picked you up. You wrapped your legs around his waist, hands going to his hair, as you licked into his mouth eagerly. Logan carried you to the table, dropping you down amongst the unopened bills and forgotten takeout menus.

“Pants,” you moaned out, arching your back and reaching out for him.

He grinned down at you. “Shouldn’t we go upstairs?”

“Why?” You asked, giggling as you pulled his fly down. “We have the whole house to ourselves.”

He answered you with a full laugh, stepping out of his pants. You pulled your shirt off, and Logan took a breath. “No bra,” he said, “Fucking perfect.”

You laughed when he dipped his head down and wrapped his lips around your nipple. He kissed up your chest and back to your mouth, and your jaw dropped when you felt his long fingers between your legs. You moved your hips, and Logan took the hint and double downed on his efforts. You came almost immediately, eyes clamped shut and mouth open, screaming silently. When you opened your eyes again, chest heaving, Logan was stripping his shirt off.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, voice thick with lust, “I want another incredible blowjob, but more than that, I want pre-date sex.” He was peeling your pants off now, and you helped him the best you could.

Your eyelids fluttered closed when he pushed inside you, and you heard his unmistakable chuckle above you. You sat up, wrapping your arms around him and pushing your chest against his. “So,” you gasped out, bouncing on his cock, “where we goin’ for our date?”

“That depends,” he answered, thrusting into you harshly, “Are you considering it our first or second date?”

“First,” you said, as if the answer was obvious, “And probably last.” You rolled your hips and moaned. He hit your sweet spot, and your legs were starting to shake.

“Keep talking like that,” he grabbed your leg and hoisted it over his shoulder, “and I won’t let you cum.”

You pouted. “You’re not playing fair!”

“Nope,” he kissed your neck, fingers gripping your thigh, “I’m playing to win.”

You let your head fall back as his hips slammed into yours. His mouth was still on your neck, leaving hickeys, and you scratched along his back, leaving marks of your own. You were close, and Logan knew it, moving against you with new purpose.

He put a hand on your neck, pushing you back on the table. “Promise me a second date,” he said, leaning over and kissing you.

You bit his lip, and he groaned. “Make me cum,” you grinned back.

Logan laughed—and man, you could imagine yourself getting used to that laugh, that smile. He plunged one hand between the two of you, down where you were connected, and you cried out at the increased sensation. It was insane—he felt insane. Soon you were cumming, squeezing around him and calling his name.

“Fuck,” he said, his voice just one octave above a growl, “You look so fucking good like this…” He grabbed your other leg, tossing it over his shoulder.

“Logan,” you sighed, running your hands up and down his arm. He kissed you, his hips still moving a mile a minute. He put a hand in your hair, moving your head to get better access to your mouth, and you sighed happily. “Fuck!” He was kissing your neck again, he smelled so good and felt fantastic, and suddenly, as his hips slammed into yours and his cock kept hitting you in all the right places, you found yourself speaking words you never thought you’d say—especially to someone you just met. “Please, baby,” you begged, “I need you!”

Logan groaned, bringing his mouth to yours again before abruptly pulling back. You watched eagerly as he came on your stomach. “Fuck,” he laughed, “sorry, didn’t mean to cum on the table,” he said, not sounding contrite at all.

“You didn’t,” you said, breathing heavily, “You came on me. Pass me the napkins.”

“So,” Logan asked, helping you wipe up and picking you up. Those butterflies started flying when he put you back on the floor. “How we lookin’ for that second date?”

You giggled, shimming back into your pants. “I’m leaning towards a maybe,” you teased.

“You’re leaning cause I made you cum. Twice,” Logan grinned back. “You got something nice to wear tonight?”

You cocked an eyebrow, shrugging into your shirt as Logan got dressed as well. “Is this your way of telling me where we’re going tonight?” You asked.

“Maybe.” He looked towards the front door, and you heard the sound of an engine. “Kids are back.”

“That was quick,” you said back.

“I’ll try not to take that as a criticism,” Logan grinned.

“Y/N!” Emma and Cameron ran to you, tackling you in a hug. “Crystal Cappelli saw me in the Rolls Royce! She’s gonna be SO jealous!” Emma cried happily, jumping in place.

“That’s not just a Rolls Royce,” Cameron said, eyes wide, “That’s a Rolls Royce Wraith! That’s like, the car of a superhero!”

“Supervillian,” Logan corrected, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Was it fun?” You asked, putting your hands on either side of Cam’s excited face.

“Yes!”

“So what do we say to Logan?” You prompted.

Cam turned to Logan, an 11-year old cherub. “Thanks for banging my sister!” He giggled, running back out the door.

“Hey!” You called after him, heat in your cheeks.

“Gotta help with the groceries!” He called back.

“Thank you, Logan,” Emma said sweetly.

“You’re welcome, Emma,” he said back.

She gave him a shy smile before following Cameron out of the door. You felt your heart skip a beat. Emma never smiled like that at any of the people who were in and out of the house—whether they came with you or with one of the boys. But she smiled at Logan.

He leaned over and kissed you again, smiling. “Wear something nice,” he said, “See you in a few hours.”

You nodded. You watched him leave, a flurry of emotions going through you—chief amongst them was confusion. You ran to the window, peaking through the blinds. Logan was talking with Jeremy, who had plastic bags in his arms. Like… a lot of bags. How much money did Logan give them? Ethan—who barely talked to you, let alone a stranger—was laughing along with them. Liam was standing next to Jeremy, holding a bag of his own like a big boy. Your eyes grew wide when you saw Logan pass something to Ethan, and you watched as he drove off.

What the hell could he be giving your kid brother?

*******************************************************************************************

Let me know what you think! I’m having so much fun writing this!

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